


Choices Cost - Chapters 00 thru 08

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-15
Updated: 2000-12-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: What do coffee, Wisconsin and Skinner's head have in common? A series about a beginning that came out of "The End".





	Choices Cost - Chapters 00 thru 08

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Choices Cost - Chapter 00 - Win or Lose by Mik

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 00 - Win or Lose  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: What do coffee, Wisconsin and Skinner's head have in common? A series about a beginning that came out of "The End".  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's notes: This is a pressie to my beta. She wanted it, and I gave it to her.

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop  If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 00 - Win or Lose  
by Mik

It came to me in a hotel room in Wisconsin. I wasn't doing anything profound like plumbing the depths of the obligatory Bible I found in the night stand, contemplating the stars outside my window, or even trolling for porn on my laptop and the Internet. I was staring at a spot on that hideous carpet where I'd managed to dump half a cup of cold coffee fifteen minutes ago, and watched it seep into the carpet like black oil. It struck me that the shape of the spill reminded me of Walter Skinner's head.

A hell of a thing for me to be thinking about on a Friday night, I told myself -- my boss's head. For a moment I even thought about calling Scully from the next room to tell me if it didn't look exactly like the old A.D.'s dome. I overcame the impulse and walked around the spot very carefully. (I didn't want to step in it and ruin the effect until I'd come to a conclusion, nor did I want to get my socks wet.)

I decided, after far too much consideration, that it looked nothing like Skinner's head, and I was very relieved. Then, as I went into the bathroom to collect the last of those paper thin towels to sop up what coffee I could, I wondered why I would even let Skinner come into my thoughts? The case, although hellish, was over, I hadn't done anything that would require an ass-chewing when we got back to D.C. (well, not much), and he hadn't deliberately thrown any screwballs my way in a month. Why would he even be occupying space in the grey matter?

On my hands and knees, wiping up the mess, I realized I had been thinking of him a great deal lately. He had barged, unbidden, into my thoughts in the oddest places; in the corner market while I was trying to convince myself that one green vegetable a year would not prove fatal; on the fourteenth lap in the Hoover's pool while I was debating the merits of swimming over running; while I was trying to write my mother a letter that wouldn't sound like whining or excuse making while begging off Thanksgiving with her. I could still see his disapproving frown and hear that rasp on wood voice saying, 'She's your mother, Agent Mulder.' "Walter, I'm giving you notice, stay the hell out of my sex fantasies," I said aloud.

The connecting door opened. Scully, in one of my tee shirts and her own red socks, stood there, frowning at me. "Mulder, did you call me?"

I felt foolish, kneeling there. Only Scully could appear, dressed in such an adorably ridiculous ensemble and make me feel foolish. I drew back to sit on my heels. "Nope. Just talking to myself." I looked down at the towel in my hand. Barely damp. That coffee was well and truly on its way to the third floor, by now. "I spilled coffee."

She nodded, not taking her eyes from mine. I know that look. It's the Mulder-you're-one-step-from-the-Thorazine look. Patent pending.

I looked down at the carpet. The stain remained. "Scully, come here and tell me what this looks like to you?"

She came over and peered down. "Um ... Bigfoot?"

I sighed at her. "Come around and look at it from this angle."

She stepped to my side of Walter's chin. "Ummm ... a map of Roswell?"

I stood and tossed the towel through the open door of the bathroom. "Yeah, that's it." I hated it when she tried to patronize me and she had been doing a lot of that lately. "'Night, Scully." I dropped down at the side of my cement slab -- er, bed, and started tugging the loosened tie from my neck.

She was still looking at the floor. "I know what it looks like to me," she murmured.

"Scully, it's a coffee spill, not a Rorschach." I tossed the tie to the foot of the bed. She was still looking down. "What?"

She was frowning, ruefully. "This is going to sound silly, but doesn't it look just a little bit like Assistant Director Skinner?" She bent slightly at the knees and traced the area I would have called his brow. "Look here."

I nodded at her. "Yeah, that's what I thought too."

"No, really, Mulder." She straightened. "What did it look like to you?"

I shook my head. She doesn't believe me even when I'm telling the truth.

"Mulder." She can make those two syllables into fourteen.

"It looked like a map of Wisconsin, to me," I lied and gestured toward the door. "Get some sleep."

She didn't move. "Mulder, Wisconsin isn't --"

"I know, I know." I stood and started easing her toward the door. "'Night, Scully."

"Mulder?" She put a hand on mine. "Are you all right?"

I nodded. "Sure. Fine." Don't ask, I warned myself. "Why?" Do I ever listen to me? Ever? Hell, no.

"You've been so preoccupied recently."

"Hmm?"

"You see --"

I cut her off with a grin. "I'm fine, G-Woman. Go to bed. And can I expect my tee shirt back before the next millennium?"

Didn't work. "Mulder, I know you've been through a lot lately, and this case took a toll on both of us." She was doing her gentle, partner/Mother thing. "Maybe you ought to consider actually taking some of your vacation this year."

"Yes, Doctor," I promised dutifully. "Now, listen to me carefully: Go ... To ... Bed."

The gentleness was gone, replaced by exasperation in the blink of bright blue eyes. "I was in bed when you called me to look at that coffee stain," she retorted and began the speech I knew had been coming all day and thus far had deftly sidestepped. "Mulder, really, looking for X-Files in coffee stains? The X-Files have been closed and --"

"Don't." I put a hand on her shoulder. "Good night, Scully." I pushed the door shut, and for some perverse reason, flicked the lock into place. Damn, damn, damn. Why did she have to say it? She'd gone three days without that 'The X-Files are Closed' speech. Also patent pending. Did she think I didn't know, didn't fully comprehend that eight years of my life had gone up in flames, and now we were chasing arsonists, mail frauds and people who make bomb threats and harass people on the Internet? I know, dear God, I know.

I settled on the side of the bed, feeling that now familiar twist in my gut, still tasting the smoke. Skinner's face came to me again, that look of concern he gave me when I stumbled out of the charred ruins of what used to be my office. For such a gruff, hard-assed guy, that look was pretty comforting. Thinking back on it made me wish I could have just climbed into his arms and let him fight off the world for awhile ...

The thought was a full two seconds gone before I felt that unexpected lurch in my psyche. What the hell? I gave myself a firm shake. Daddy issues, I told myself. It's clinical. It's textbook. I stood and rubbed my arms as if chilled. I was chilled. A grown man should not fantasize about the comforts of another man's arms. Another thought came to me, another memory, this one more tangible. I could actually feel the heat of his body against my back as he subdued me in the hallway outside his office. Oh, no, I said to myself. We aren't going down memory lane with Walter Skinner tonight. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Then there was the time he held me down over a desk because I kept seeing -- "Damn it, stop this!" I said sharply.

Scully knocked again. I realized that she had been knocking pretty steadily since I shut the door in her face and defiantly locked it. "Mulder?"

I pulled the door open with an unfeigned sigh of irritation. "Yes?"

She pushed her way inside. "Mulder, what's going on with you?"

"Nothing that a little sleep wouldn't cure," I told her back as she moved to the edge of the bed and perched. C'mon, man, she's sitting on your bed. Doesn't that do anything for you? No, not tonight.

She smirked at me. "That's rich, coming from you." She crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up, I could clearly see her nipples through the cotton of my shirt. "Mulder, I'm worried about you. Something's gotten under your skin, what is it?"

"Under my skin, Scully? Is that a medical term?"

"Come on, Mulder." She yawned broadly. "It's almost midnight. I want to get a little sleep this week."

"And being here would help you accomplish this ... how?"

She looked at me as if it was obvious. "I can't sleep with you talking to yourself and spilling things over here."

I frowned at her. "Scully, are you all right?"

"What's that mean?" she snapped.

"It means that what you said makes no sense. I talk to myself all the time. When has that become an issue for you?"

Then I saw something in those laser blue eyes that made that chasm of guilt somewhere beneath my breastbone open up and swallow me whole. "Scully?"

Her lower lip began to quiver. "It's all over," she whispered. "It's all over and we never changed a thing."

Tears? My pragmatic Scully's eyes were filling with tears. Over the X-Files? She was the last person who would cry over their demise. Well, second to last -- Skinner was the last. Damn it, there he is again! "We changed a lot," I promised her quickly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We did. We caught killers and stopped maniacs and aliens and ..." I stopped because I felt for a moment as if I wanted to cry. "And who the hell says it's over?"

"They do." She wasn't sobbing, but there was a querulous little break to her voice. "They won."

"Fuck that!" I snarled. "They haven't won, yet. We're still here." I touched my chest. "They might have destroyed the evidence, but they can't take away what we know, what we've seen." I brushed her hair back from her eyes. "Come on, Scully, don't do this to me. You're the strong, prosaic one, not me." I knelt in front of her. "Don't give up on me, now. We'll get the X-Files back. We'll beat them. I promise." I tried to smile up into her eyes. "Promise."

"We've lost so much," she whispered, anguished.

"I know." She had lost almost everything. I hated myself for that.

"All our work ..."

'Our work'? What about Melissa? What about Emily? What about her chance for more children? What the fuck does 'our work' matter in the face of all that? "It's okay, Scully." I paused, helplessly. "Really."

She looked down at me.

I did it. I had tried once before, but a bee stung her and she ended up buried under the polar ice cap, filled with green goo. I was fairly certain that wouldn't happen again. I leaned up and brushed a kiss across her lips.

A warm, surrendering little sound came out of her, and she leaned down into me. And then something else happened again: I found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss Walter Skinner.

I jerked back so fast she must have thought I was the one stung by the bee this time. "Mulder?" she whispered.

"I ... um ... I ..." I did not know what to say to her. "I'm sorry, Scully. I shouldn't have done that."

She quirked a teary smile at me. "You've done it before."

I tried smiling back. "Yeah, and look what happened to you."

She stopped smiling and those little bow lips turned down in a doubtful frown. "So you say."

"C'mon, Scully, you know what happened to you. You saw it. You saw the --"

She put a hand on my shoulder. "Mulder, I know you believe it. That's all that matters to me."

Now that hurt. No wonder I'd been getting the funny looks and painful speeches so much. She really did think I'd gone (as they say in psychology 101) 'round the bend. Maybe I had, if I'd prefer Walter Skinner to Dana Scully.

Her fingers curled around my shoulder and squeezed. "Come on, Mulder, you need to get some sleep."

"Yeah." I backed away from her and stood, avoiding her eyes. I must be losing my mind, I thought, performing an almost comic dance to get out of her way as she went to the door. "'Night."

She paused at the door. She's a scientist. She knew something had just happened. "Mulder?"

I don't think the scientist was prepared for the harshness of my tone when I said, "Don't," without turning back to her. The psychologist certainly wasn't. I heard her sigh, and then I heard the door close gently. Damn, damn, DAMN! Mulder, what the hell is the matter with you this time? I dropped face down on my bed. Walter S. Skinner, get the hell out of my brain, right now!

I rolled onto my back and tried to deal with this bizarre fixation rationally. Okay, what is it about him I find attractive? Hmm ... couldn't be the fact that he's as big as a tank, and just as mean. Couldn't be those eyes the color of coffee or melted chocolate and just as hot. I lifted my head and frowned down at the rest of my body, wondering if I'd been replaced by a pod person without my knowing it. When the hell did I start noticing his eyes? Half the time, you can't even tell the bastard's got eyes with those glasses of his.

Flopping back on the bed, I pressed the heels of my hands against my own eyes. Think, Mulder. Why are you suddenly obsessing on a man who's generally made your life miserable for the past six years? Daddy issues? I suggested again. Of course. He's my boss. He's big and strong and powerful, and in a position of authority over me. Just like a daddy. And, just like a daddy, he has his moments of compassion and kindness, two things which I'm in a frame of mind to need. That's all. Textbook. I mentally closed the file and dusted my hands. It'll be gone in the morning. I got up and began to undress.

\- END chapter 00 -

 

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 01 - Pay or Play  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Walt's a lumberjack, and that's okay. He sleeps all night and he works all day.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's notes: This is still my beta's baby. But, Nicky, Skinner isn't always who you think he is.

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop  If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 01 - Pay or Play  
by Mik

He was tapping a pencil against my report, the desk lamp shining down on that smooth, bald pate. I shifted in my seat, waiting for him to raise his head, sigh and begin one of those speeches that begins, 'Agent Mulder, are you trying to suggest that ...'

Next to me, Scully was looking down at a small scuff on her shoe. She was irritated by it. Scully doesn't like scuffs, and spots and stains. She's stared holes in ties of mine simply because a little errant coffee somehow managed to materialize on them. We'd been uncomfortably polite to each other all morning. I'd barely spoken to her Saturday as we flew home, hadn't hounded her a half dozen times Sunday while I wrote my piece of the report. We didn't meet for breakfast this morning, a Monday morning tradition since ... probably forever.

"Agent Mulder, are you all right?"

I jerk my gaze from the toe of Scully's shoe. "Yes, sir." I sat up a little straighter. "Why, sir?"

He tapped the paper again. "This is the most concise, to the point, and well-documented report you have ever turned in to me."

My eyes narrowed. "Your point is not lost on me, sir," I mumbled.

"Agent Mulder, I wasn't trying to make a point." He sounded slightly wounded. "I was sincere. Are you all right?"

I shot a glance at Scully. "Fine, sir." I started to lever myself out of my chair. "Thank you for your concern."

"Did I dismiss you?"

No, but if you don't, I'm going to make a fool out of myself any minute, I thought. I dropped back into my chair. "No, sir. Sorry, sir." Damn it, white shirt, sleeves rolled up. The guy's got forearms like my thighs. I flashed on an image of his forearms around my thighs and actually felt the stirrings of an erection. Oh, Mulder, this is getting out of control. You need something else to obsess on. Quick.

"Very well." He closed the folder. "That will be all \--Agent Mulder, would you mind waiting a moment?"

"Why, sir?" I stopped just short of a whine.

He sent a look toward Scully, who had frozen, halfway out of her chair. She stood and moved toward the door. He waited until she had pulled the door shut behind her. "Are you all right, Mulder?"

I swallowed. "Fine, sir," I repeated.

"I'm concerned for you. You've been through a great deal recently and --"

"Has Scully been talking to you, sir?" Concerned for me? Oh, man, Daddy ...

"No." He frowned sharply. "Why would she be?"

I shrugged. "No reason." I started to stand again. "Excuse me --"

"Mulder, I want you to take some vacation. You need it. Go see your mother. Go fishing. Go get laid."

I almost choked. "S -- sir?"

He was actually blushing. "You heard me." He looked around his office. His voice was gruffer than usual. "It might do you some good."

I swallowed tightly. Well, I asked for a new obsession. Now I have one: the sound of the surly one instructing me to have sex. "Thank you for the advice, sir." I started to stand.

"Here." He pulled a packet of papers from a desk drawer.

"What's this?" I looked and read the top line. REQUEST FOR TIME OFF. Oh, right, he just happened to have them in his drawer? "Getting a little heat from the seventh floor, sir?"

He was tapping the pencil again. "Where will you be taking you vacation, Agent Mulder?" His eyes were on mine. I couldn't see them through the reflected glare of his desk lamp, but I could feel them.

I felt a little hitch in my chest -- the kind you feel when you're thirteen and the prettiest girl in school accidentally looks your way. I looked at the papers again. "I'll ... um ... let you know, sir." Well, that has to be a record: fourteen 'sirs' in fifteen minutes. "Excuse me." I turned toward the door. It felt like my ears were burning. It felt as if he was watching me go. It felt as if I wanted to turn around and catch him watching me. I didn't look back.

Scully was at her desk, her back to me as I came into the glass partitioned space we now called an office. She flicked a glance over her shoulder as I sat down. I spread the forms out in front of me and sighed. "Did you have anything to do with this, Scully?" I asked.

"You need a rest, Mulder," I heard her say patiently. "One that doesn't involve a hospital stay."

I didn't bother to look up. She does think I'm going around the bend. Great, two warring emotions and neither one the kind I want to curl up and savor for the next week. I folded the papers carefully and tucked them into my desk drawer, and reached for a folder on my desk. I opened it, flipped through papers I had read before, looking for something I might have missed, a detail, a fact, a glance, a murmur, a deep, embarrassed voice telling me sex would do me good ...

I shut the folder and looked around the room. Scully was at the file cabinet. My palms were sweating. I reached for my jacket. "I'm going to take my lunch a little early today, Scully," I announced. "See you around one."

Alone in the elevator, I pressed my cheek against the coolness of stainless steel. This has got to stop, Mulder, I told myself.

*******************************************

The new office smells different. I was used to dust and old manila files and the exhaust fumes escaping the parking structure through the failing ventilation system. My new office smells like copy machine toner and plywood. It smells a bit like Scully's shampoo or body lotion or whatever it is that smells like wildflowers. That smell was faint today. She said she was spending my vacation at Quantico. So I had blissful solitude to look forward to. I just didn't have to look forward to it at home. I eased the drawer of a filing cabinet open and tugged out a stack of files. Something to take my mind off Walter S. Skinner's forearms and brown eyes.

At ten o'clock I might have killed for coffee, even the bottom of the pot crap I could smell from the bullpen. But I came in here early so no one would know I was here, and I couldn't risk a run down to the coffeepot and give myself away. It occurred to me as I decided that, that I couldn't risk a run to the men's room either. Shit.

Focus. Focus. Focus. I kept my eyes fixed on words that I didn't give a damn about, just so I wouldn't think about coffee and bathrooms and Walter Skinner. I succeeded so well I didn't hear the door open, the annoyed sigh. I only heard the "Are you trying to get brought up on insubordination charges, Agent Mulder?"

I sat up with a jerk. "Putting in a few extra hours without pay is hardly insubordination," I snapped, rattled by his presence. Another white shirt, another perfect tie, another set of sleeves rolled up. Another scowl.

"It is when you were under orders to take vacation time," he answered, sounding so very tired of me.

"I ..." I stopped, closed the file with a shrug. "I didn't have anything else to do."

There was a momentary look ... compassion? ... tenderness? ... pity? ... that flickered across his face. Then it hardened, became business-like. "I thought you would go to your mother's?"

"I'd rather be charged with insubordination," I muttered, fussing with the stack of files before me. "It wasn't ... ah ... convenient, sir," I answered louder.

He heard me. I knew it. "What about a trip?" he proposed. "Skiing or camping?"

I lifted the files and brought them to the cabinet. "Too early for skiing and I've never been camping."

His look of incredulity was beautiful. I wish I hadn't been too embarrassed to enjoy it. "You've never gone camping?"

I smiled tightly into the drawer. "Unless you count spending the night in the Everglades with a partner who was never a Girl Scout, trying not to be attacked by some kind of alien fungus man, no."

He makes these decisions in a fingersnap. I never could think or plan or come to conclusions as fast as he does. "Go home, Agent Mulder. I expect you packed and ready to go at four o'clock."

I looked back at him, blankly. "Uh ... go?"

He sighed, a loud, aggrieved sigh. "I am going to make sure you have a vacation if I have to take you into the wilderness myself and tie you to a tree for a week.

Tied to a tree for a week with Walter Skinner ... I shook my head sharply to get that image out of my mind.

I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Are you defying a direct order?" he demanded.

I looked back again. "No, sir, I ... uh ..." He was glaring holes in me. "What should I pack?"

"You really have no idea?" The incredulity was back in his voice even if it wasn't in his face.

"Well, no, sir."

He looked at me, pain creeping in around his eyes. "Did you ever ... do things with your father?"

I shrugged, awkwardly. "Well, we were in Indian Guides together for a while."

"Well, there you --"

"When I was six and the closest we got to going camping was an all nighter around the Weber in someone's backyard." The idea of Bill Mulder going out into the wilderness ... I felt myself smirking. "It wasn't exactly roughing it."

He pursed his lips. "Jeans, sweatshirts, thick socks, boots. A fishing pole if you have it ..." he let the idea trail away as he saw me smile, helplessly. "Very well. Just make sure you bring enough to keep you warm at night. It will get pretty cold where we're going."

"And that would be where, sir?"

He smiled! Well, it was just a little turn up on one side of his mouth, but it was beautiful. It actually made my breath catch in my throat. "You just wait on events, Agent Mulder." He turned back to the door. "Four o'clock."

I glanced at my watch and nodded. "Yes, sir." I watched the door shut. Camping. Woods. Isolation. Cold nights. Walter Skinner. I was having a near death experience. Come to the light, Mulder. Come to the light ...

I didn't waste time tidying up. I had the eerie feeling he was standing at the end of the corridor waiting to see if I followed orders. I was probably four minutes behind him leaving that office.

On my way down to my car, I tried to put this swirl of anticipation in its proper place. Couldn't do it. I wanted to go tramp around in the woods with him. Daddy's taking me camping ...

*******************************************

I had been pacing between the phone and the front door for at least fifteen minutes and it wasn't quite four o'clock. Every time I got to the phone, I wanted to dial his cell and tell him I'd decided to take my mother to Prague or something. By the time I'd get back to the door, I was envisioning throwing myself into his arms when he arrived. What the hell is the matter with me?

Four exactly, I heard his sharp rap at the door. I was almost back to the door anyway, so I made myself stand still and get a couple of deep breaths before I responded. For a moment, I felt like some teenage girl trying not to appear too anxious on a first date. Another impatient rap and I lunged for the door. "Sorry, sorry," I muttered. And then I stared.

Daddy was a lumberjack! Shit. Tight jeans tucked into pale gold Doc Martens. Red and black flannel shirt, cuffs rolled up above his elbows. A leather scabbard in his belt, the carved ivory handle of a knife digging into his hip. The only thing he missed was one of those hats with earflaps and an ax swung over his shoulder. I could be Babe, his blue ox.

My scrutiny annoyed or amused him, but who could tell? "May I come in?" he asked in that tolerant drawl.

I backed up, wordlessly.

He sent me a glance, taking inventory; jeans, sweatshirt, my old motorcycle boots. He nodded. "You packed?"

Still wordless, I pointed to my backpack.

He scooped it up, grabbed my leather jacket and shoved it at me. "Relax, Agent Mulder, and you just might enjoy yourself."

Oh, I thought, shrugging into my coat as I followed him out the door, I really hope so.

Downstairs, at the curb, was another surprise. I had never even imagined that Skinner owned any sort of personal vehicle. He always just appeared places, spawned, as it were, from nondescript government issues. What waited at the curb was massive, immaculate, ancient. I blinked at him.

He smiled again, slightly. "'62 Ford," he answered my unasked question. "Rebuilt eight cylinder with overhead cams." He pulled the passenger door open and I got a whiff of old, but well cared for leather. I had to climb in. I half expected to feel his hand on my butt, giving me a boost. I half hoped ...

I dropped gracelessly onto the bench seat and sat, stunned. This crush on the boss was unacceptable on so many levels, not the least of which was if he found out, he'd kill me.

He climbed up and slid under the wheel and cranked the key, shooting a glance at me. The engine rumbled and roared to life. "What did you expect? A Suburban?"

I gave him a blank stare. Oh, he meant that monster SUV. "No. I didn't expect anything." The damn truck sounded just like him. "This is ... uh ... nice." I looked at him. "Did you do this?"

He actually laughed! A.D. Skinner laughed! Deep, rich sound. Oh, man, I could drown in it. "Son, I've had this truck since I was sixteen years old. I've done just about everything to it, and it has done just about everything to me."

Son. He called me Son. I'm doomed.

"Relax, Agent Mulder," he said for the second time, moving the monolith on wheels into traffic. "You might accidentally have some fun."

Ah, that growl. Everything will be all right now. I settled back in the seat, and looked down at the car in the lane next to us. "Gee, they all look like ants from up here ..."

I felt more than heard him chuckle. It rippled through my entire body, and settled uncomfortably around my groin.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, he reached for the rounded, chrome knobs of that thing in the middle of the dash between us. Radio, I explained to myself. That's what they used to look like. I held my breath. What kind of music would A. D. Skinner listen to? Then I felt a tremor of disappointment. A. D. Skinner probably listens to Capitol News or CNBC or some of that shit. I let myself fall back against the seat.

Do you want to know what comes out of a radio from the sixties? Music from the sixties. A Beatles' song. I actually recognized it. I slid him a quick look. And he smiled back at me. Okay, it was that same little lift of one side of his mouth, but hell, if I want it to be a smile, it's a smile.

"A little before your time, I suppose," he said, but he didn't change the channel-station-whatever. He actually turned it up. He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

"I remember the Beatles," I answered disdainfully. All right, I was eight when they broke up, but how could you live in a land of People Magazine and the Internet and not know the Beatles? Abbey Road and Paul is dead and Yoko Ono and who shot J.R. and John Lennon.

Another song came on, something I did know and like, a little Motown. The stuff I used to dance to in my room, back when I was young enough and foolish enough to think I could dance.

"Agent Mulder, are you humming?"

I could feel my cheeks flush. "Yeah," I answered belligerently. "I've even been known to break into song."

"Yes," he said dryly. "Agent Scully has filed complaints."

"This is going to be a fun week," I grumbled and settled lower in my seat.

*******************************************

"Agent Mulder?"

I brushed impatiently at the annoying buzz.

Then it brushed back. "Agent Mulder."

I sat up with a jerk, and looked around. Of all the stupid, humiliating things to do, I managed to fall asleep in front of my boss. I sensed more than saw his concerned stare in the darkness and glanced away.

"Don't sleep well, do you, Agent?"

"No, it's just car rides are enervating," I answered, allowing myself a thorough stretch.

"That would explain the number of rental cars that you have wrecked." He was chuckling as he backed out of his door.

"You know, this is my vacation," I snarled at him. "I don't have to take this abuse."

"Quit your whining and get your butt out of the car. We're on my time, now."

I was startled by the command, the language but most of all by that barely hidden chuckle in his voice. I moved, obediently. Sliding down out of the truck, I took in our surroundings, as a trained investigator should. There was a lot of surrounding, and not much else. In fact, there was nothing else. It was just a clearing among trees. I thought I might hear water nearby, or maybe it was the wind in the treetops. And it was, as promised, cold. "Where are we?" I asked, rubbing my arms.

"Someplace where no X-File will find you," Skinner replied, reaching past me to get our bags out of the space behind our seats.

The flannel of his sleeve brushed against the back of my hand and I swear to you it made me shiver. "Wanna' bet?" I muttered.

"What's that?" He handed me my backpack. Then he handed me a flashlight. "Ever put up a tent?"

"Not so it would stay up," I admitted. "Listen, sir, you're not exactly spending the weekend with a Mountie, here."

"Relax, Mulder, you are." He thrust long, thin metallic things at me.

I shivered again. So he always gets his man, huh? "Okay, Dudley Do-Right, what do I do?"

"You just hold the flashlight, watch and learn." He took the tent poles away from me, wandered off a few feet, looked around, and began to lay out canvas.

Man, look at him, I thought, letting the beam of light trail carelessly from where he was setting up our shelter to his shoulders and back. Why couldn't my dad do stuff like this?

"Mulder, a little light here?" he grunted.

"Sorry." I jerked the light back toward his hands. He had arranged the canvas and the poles into something shaped like a boxing ring. I had a mental image of him in silk trunks and nothing else. I know I sighed.

He didn't look up. "How can you be sleepy? You slept all the way up here."

"I'm not --" I cut myself off. "I don't know. You're the one who said I needed a vacation."

I found a rock big enough to accommodate me and I settled on it, cross-legged, while he fashioned our bedchamber out of canvas and metal poles. He just seemed to know what he was doing. It would be dawn and I'd still be wondering how the poles fit into the grommets or whatever those round metal holes are called. In less than a half hour, he was done, standing back, hands on hips, studying the structure critically.

"Well, it's not the Hilton," he said, picking up two sleeping bags, "but by all reports it's better than those flea-bags you inevitably stay in."

"I don't know," I said doubtfully, coming to the flap and swinging the flashlight around. "It's pretty small."

"There's just two of us, Mulder. How many were you expecting?"

"I don't know," I repeated irritably. I put my backpack down in a corner. We both had to hunch inside. "I don't know the etiquette of the wild. Maybe we're supposed to invite the locals."

"The locals would be bears, Mulder. I don't think you'd want to spend the night with one of them."

I cocked him a look. "Bears. Big things that growl, right? How would that be different than what I'm doing?"

He was arranging his sleeping bag, and didn't bother to look up as he observed, "You really resent having a good time, don't you?"

"I don't know. Let me know when I'm having one, and I'll get back to you." I took the bedroll he tossed at me and unfurled it.

"Wait a minute. I forgot something." He took my flashlight, leaving me in the dark, in the canvas, hunched over, wondering what the hell I was going to do in that little tiny place knowing that I was going to practically be sleeping in his arms. A moment later he returned with a massive stack of newspapers.

"Oh, good. I can catch up on what Spiderman's been up to," I murmured.

He handed me several issues. "No, put a few layers of these down before you put down your sleeping bag. It will insulate you from the cold ground."

I snuck a quick peek at a few of the mastheads; Wall Street Journal, Washington Week In Review, Republican Weekly Herald. "A little light reading?" I suggested. Ugh. A Republican!

"Better get to sleep, Mulder," he grunted, easing himself into his own bag. "We'll be rising with the sun."

Well, that's something to look forward to, I thought, trying to emulate his movements and get into my sleeping bag without putting an elbow across the bridge of his nose. Finally I managed to worm my way down into the bag and I shifted slightly, and found myself face to face with an unbespecatacled A.D. I had seen him without his glasses before, but not this close. Wow. They really do look like melted chocolate, I thought. "Um ... good night." I rolled over, put my back to him. "Sir."

I swear I could feel his breath on the nape of my neck. "Good night, Mulder."

\- END chapter 01 -

 

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 02 - Day or Night  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Walter pitches tents, Mulder pitches fits.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's notes: Still yours, beta-baby.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 02 - Day or Night  
by Mik

I'm not sure what woke me. It wasn't my television. It wasn't my alarm. It wasn't traffic sounds on the street below me, or in the hall outside my door. It was ... I strained to place the sound ... birds! What the hell were birds doing singing outside my window?

I opened my eyes, and looked around. My window wasn't where it should be. Nothing was. There was just that hint of grey light that says daylight is on the way but got delayed at the station. And it was cold. An almost bone chilling cold that made me want to burrow down into blankets and hibernate 'til Spring. I started to sit up, check my watch, do a quick mini mental status check, but there was a weight across my middle that kept me in place.

Nervously, I sent my glance right and nearly swallowed my tongue. Walter S. Skinner, the scourge of the sixth floor, was snuggled up to me, his arm draped across my waist, his cheek pressed against my shoulder. What did he say about X-Files finding me?

But -- here's another X-File -- I liked it. I relaxed. I sort of settled into it, trying to picture how I came to be wrapped up in his arms. He was warm. His weight felt good against me. And besides, he looked damned cute laying there, almost smiling, that bare face relaxed in repose. I resisted an urge to slide my hand over that bald head.

It didn't last, though. Within a few moments, he must have sensed I was awake, because he shifted, and snorted and rolled onto his back, stretching like that bear he warned me about. I turned my head and watched him. Wow. He must have been something as a field agent. He must have been hell as a Marine.

He sat up, stretching again, and looked down at me. "Feel better?" he asked.

I gave him a quizzical smile. "What? One night in the great outdoors is supposed to make a new man out of me?" Keep sleeping with me and I'll make a new man out of both of us. See if I don't. Good grief, Mulder! I felt my cheeks redden and I began to make a great process out of escaping from my sleeping bag.

His voice was soft but matter of fact. As if to say, 'what about it, but no big deal.' "No, I meant the nightmare."

I froze. Kept my eyes firmly fixed on the plaid flannel lining of my borrowed sleeping bag. "Uh ... nightmare? What nightmare would that be, sir?" Shit, I don't remember a nightmare. He's going to have me committed again, and this time he won't let me out, no matter how many Zombie Pincuses there are out there.

"The one you were having about three this morning," he answered, too casually, climbing out ahead of me and reaching for his boots. "Believe me, Mulder, the bears are now afraid of you."

I felt a swirl of sickness at the bottom of my stomach. I knew what came next; the sneers, the derision, the disappointment. I knew my dad's speeches about my nightmares by heart. I knew I suffered from a sleep disorder exacerbated by trauma, but to my dad, it just proved I was weak, a failure as a son. "S -- sorry," I began, still avoiding his eyes.

"So am I," he agreed, pushing back the tent flap, letting in a rush of cold, misty air. He took a long look out, and breathed deeply of air that seemed suspiciously full of something I'd have to describe as oxygen. "I hope dragging you up to the mountains didn't reopen some old wounds." He paused, flicked me a look. "Do you want to go home?"

Weak. That's what he thinks I am, I realized. A class A wimp. It hurt to think that he thought that. In fact, it hurt more than I expected. "No. Of course not. It just ..." I shrugged. "It just happens sometimes. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

He shook his head and looked away. "Don't apologize. I have some doozies myself, some nights. I nearly got kicked out of my condo right after I moved in because the divorce brought so much of it back to me." He climbed out of the tent.

I sat there a moment. I almost wanted to cry in gratitude.

He reappeared. "Of course, cuddles don't work as well on me. You may have to get a good size stick if I start thrashing around in the night." He was gone.

I stared at the tent flap. Cuddles? Is that what happened? Daddy, the Lumberjack, cuddled me when I had a nightmare. I felt the tears sting my eyes that time.

It took me a long time to get out of the tent. By the time I could scramble out and force myself to my feet, he was piling rocks into a ring, and laying twigs over it. I watched him for a moment. "Don't waste a bullet, sir," I advised dryly. "I've got matches in my backpack. They're even waterproof. I learned my lesson in the Everglades."

He looked back at me, bewildered, lifted a branch about the size of my leg and broke it over his with a loud crack.

I flinched. Well, I always knew he could break me in two. And yet, seeing that simple, concise gesture seemed to kick-start my libido. Oh, shit ... It's going to be a long day.

He put the broken pieces into the pile and dug into one of the many pockets of his jeans, producing a lighter with the Marines logo on it. "Never leave home without it." He knelt and flicked the lid of the lighter back, and with a snicking sound, started several small flames among the twigs and branches.

I looked down at it, admiringly. "Cool," I murmured. "What are we going to do with it?"

"Start breakfast," he answered and stood, heading for his truck.

I looked after him. Food. I like a man who plans ahead. "Uh, sir, is there a bathroom in the back of your truck?"

He laughed at me. "Use a bush, Mulder." He waved a hand toward the trees on the other side of the tent. "Just be careful which leaves you use to clean up. Poison Ivy can be a bitch."

"Leaflets three, let it be," I muttered at him, and scanned the area. I turned and trotted toward the growing light.

For some reason, the ground decided to head upward almost directly leaving the campsite. It felt good to push myself up the hill, full bladder and all. It helped to get over the humiliation of knowing Walter Skinner had seen a full blown Mulder-episode. It also kept me from thinking about how good it felt to know he was willing to comfort me. Huh. I wonder if he'd do that for Scully or ... or ... Spender. Ick.

I came to a stop abruptly because the ground did. I found myself on a ledge, looking down over a lake, spread out like mercury over the deep green of the trees in the rising sun. Wow. I always loved the sea in the morning, but this ...

A V of birds swept in low along the surface of the water, in a perfect, undulating formation, scanning the water for breakfast the way Frohike would scan machine language, looking for a backdoor into someone's ICQ. Occasionally one would break formation, dip into the water, and surface, a prize squirming frantically from his beak.

"Reminds me of Washington, sometimes."

I turned with a jerk. There he was, big as life, standing beside me, lumberjack shirt open at the collar, brilliant white tee shirt beneath, a hint of dark hair at the neckline, a hand shielding his eyes from the rising sun. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"I was going to bring you up here later," Skinner said in a not quite scolding tone. "You spoiled the surprise." He looked at his watch. "Come on, breakfast is ready."

"Already?"

He cocked a brow at me. "Mulder, you've been gone an hour." He held up his wrist, showing me the time on his watch.

No. Impossible. "And I haven't ..." I stopped.

The son of a bitch laughed at me. "What have you been doing?"

"Looking." I gestured toward the lake. "Just looking."

He stopped laughing and nodded. "Yeah, it's something." He pointed. "You see that dock to the left of that little bay? There's a house up there. I'm going to retire there."

"Really?" I thought I could make out a stone chimney, and maybe some smoke. Maybe. I looked at Skinner again, doubtfully. "It's a little out of the way, isn't it?"

"And that's exactly where I want to be." He clapped a hand to my shoulder affably. "Come on, Son, let's eat that food before the raccoons beat us to it."

"I'll be right behind you. I need to do what I came up here to do." Take a leak, Mulder. You can tell him you need to piss. What's the matter with you? When did you get all delicate, anyway? When he called me Son, and held me when I had a nightmare. Damn it. We've got to go home or I am going to make a complete ass out of myself and embarrass him in the process. Maybe if I broke my leg or something ...

He was still standing there, looking at me oddly. "Mulder, are you sure you're okay?"

I snapped my attention to him. "Fine. Still sleepy." I feigned an elaborate yawn. "I'll be right there. I hope breakfast includes coffee."

"You can't camp without coffee, Mulder," he told me with deadly seriousness.

"Oh." I considered it. "I might learn to like it." I was lying and he knew it. I waited until I couldn't see that red flannel shirt and then I wandered off to find a bush.

I was impressed that I managed to find my way back down to the campsite.

He seemed to be, too. He tossed me a nod as I reappeared from around the tent. "Feel better?"

I didn't bother to respond. I came up to the fire and held my hands out toward the warmth while I watched him. He was filling metal plates with fried eggs and bacon and potatoes. He held up a plate as if for inspection. "Living dangerously, are we?" I asked, noting the menu.

He didn't look up as I accepted it. "Well, camping with you makes it redundant, don't you think?"

"I'm not that bad!" I protested indignantly, finding my rock and settling down. "Come on, tell me the truth. How many people have I injured -- besides perps?"

He shook his head as he filled coffee cups. "Don't be so sensitive, Mulder."

Sensitive. Now that was a familiar word. A word that had haunted me for twenty five years. 'You're too damn sensitive, Fox. You're going to have to grow up, be a man, not a baby.'

"You don't like it?"

I looked up. He was standing in front of me with a steaming metal mug. "Sir?"

"You were scowling at it."

I shook my head. "Sorry."

"Will you stop apologizing?" he growled.

"S--" I took a long drink of too hot coffee, letting it scald my lips, tongue, palette, throat. I gasped.

He stopped on his way back to the fire and looked at me. "Uh, Mulder, the coffee's hot."

"No, shit," I gulped.

"Mulder." He put his plate down and came back to the rock. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

I tilted my head slightly, not really wanting to meet his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Your nightmare. It happens. To all of us." He generously emphasized the word 'us'. "Given the things you've seen and done in your lifetime, I'm amazed you get any sleep at all."

I shrugged. "It's not so bad, really." I tried to find words to make him understand. "It's just a little embarrassing to be in a situation where your boss has to comfort you like a baby."

"There's nothing wrong with needing comfort now and then, Mulder. It's human nature. We all need it." He returned to the fire and collected his plate. "We lose our humanity when we lose contact with others. You're a psychologist. You know that."

"Uh...yeah," I agreed stupidly. I watched him pour himself coffee and settle down on a log next to the fire. "Um ... Sir?"

"Walter."

I blinked at him.

He wasn't looking at me. He was forking dangerous amounts of cholesterol into his mouth.

"What?"

He raised his head and flicked a look my direction as he chewed. "My name is Walter."

"Yes, I know that."

"Call me that. It sounds ..." He swallowed. "Weird for you to call me Sir up here."

I took a bite.

"What is it?"

I blinked at him again.

"You started to ask me a question." He reached for his coffee. "Come on, Mulder. Relax. I haven't killed one of my agents outside the line of duty in years."

I tried to smile. I knew he was trying to make me comfortable. "I wanted to know why you brought me up here."

"Because you needed it." He took a long draught and put the cup down. "You were on a suicide bent."

"I was not!" I spluttered.

"Mulder." Just that one word. I had no argument for it. I didn't accept it, but I couldn't argue it.

"Work is good for me," I finished lamely. "It gives me focus." I knew I sounded like a petulant child.

"There is such a thing as too much of a good thing," he answered almost gently.

He still hadn't told me what I really wanted to know. "Even if that was true," I persisted, "why did you bring me here?"

"Because, when you were left to your own devices, you came right back to work." He picked up his plate again and pointed his fork at me. "Now, eat, before it gets too cold."

"No. Why did you bring me here?"

He stopped chewing. He looked at me. He sighed. "Because I thought it might be good for you not to be alone."

Well, I didn't have an answer for that one. I picked up my fork and started pushing food around on my plate. The truth is ... I was alone. My sister was a memory, my father was dead, my mother had abdicated her role, and Scully ... well, Scully and I would never be equals in any kind of relationship because we had no equality in our passions, desires and goals. If I abandoned all those things about me she couldn't accept, there wouldn't be anything left for her to want.

"Why did you agree to come up here?"

I was jerked back into the moment. "My superior gave me a direct order?" I answered uncertainly.

"You didn't have to," he replied, flicking the last of his coffee out over the fire.

"No, I suppose not," I admitted. I looked up at him, watching him scrape his plate into a plastic bag. "But, to be honest, sir -- um, Walter, when you give an order, it's a little hard to realize I have options."

"That's bullshit." His dark gaze shot across the camp to pin me in place. "I don't think I've ever given you an order you complied with, at least without being at gunpoint."

He had me there. I owed him an answer I neither understood or completely accepted. I shook my head regretfully. "Then I don't have an answer for you."

He continued to look at me. "I think you do," he said thoughtfully, perhaps sadly. "And when you're ready, you'll give it to me."

I looked around the campsite. How does one go about deliberately breaking one's leg?

*******************************************

We finished our meal in silence, cleaned up and put down the fire in silence. Stowed our gear in the truck in silence. With a mere nod of his head he beckoned me to follow him. Hands in pockets, I started off, him in the lead, and watched his shoulders swing wide as he marched over hilly terrain, watched his legs move in long even strides no matter which direction the ground was going, watched his butt ...

I admit I was confused and even a little bit frightened. Now, I realize that there are homosexual tendencies in all humans. They are stronger in some than others, strong enough that people act on them. Most humans elect to stay within what society determines the 'norm'. I had honestly never been aware of anything more than the natural curiosity of adolescence and that had faded the first time I got my hand under a girl's shirt.

But lately I had been having strange thoughts. I had caught myself measuring the movements of other men and finding something oddly graceful and alluring about them. I had let old curiosities stray into my nightly routine with the VCR. I hadn't gone so far as to actually rent a gay video, but I had caught myself imagining the sensation of muscle and sinew and sweat instead of the soft, silky and perfumed curves I normally envisioned.

More and more lately, my nights did not end with a groan of release but with a moan of longing and a sigh of dissatisfaction.

There was something specific I had been seeking. The fantasies I began to develop involved a man of a certain 'type'. Of a certain size, build, strength of character. Really, it was the character that mattered more than anything. The physical aspects of his manhood mattered only in that he was bigger and stronger and tougher than me.

And then I started remembering all the times I had come in contact with Walter Skinner's body. The way he could take me down, wrap me up, control me. I would remember the breadth of his chest, the heat of his body, the strength of his hands. The strength of his character showing even in physical situations. His determination to control me yet striving never to hurt me. He never hit me. Never used violence. Only size, and strength and power. And now ...

"Still with me?"

I looked in the direction of his voice. He was halfway down the ravine, looking up at me where I had stopped, staring out at the lake. His posture was one of impatience; hands on hips, head cocked upward, that remarkable chin jutting out.

"Yeah." I started to move. Too fast. The root of a tree decided to reach out and grab me and I went, quite spectacularly, forward, hands over my head, careening toward him. Even as I tumbled headlong toward a broken neck, I was comforted. Well, now we could go home and Walter Skinner will never know I've been jerking off thinking of his ass.

\- END chapter 02 -

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 03 - Hot or Cold  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: You only hurt the one you love. Or ... breaking up is hard to do.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's notes: To my beta ... who really knows her bones.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 03 - Hot or Cold  
by Mik

Coming through that thick, muzzy darkness was like trying to surface from a shipwreck, and getting the bends in my head. My first thought was that my head hurt. My second was to wonder if I had succeeded injuring myself enough to warrant going home. My third was to try and determine what position I was in and to identify the warm, fuzzy thing my face was pressed against. I shifted slightly to look.

That got an answer almost instantly. I heard a deep, low groan, rumbling in my ear. I didn't have to think to know that a) it was a groan of pain and b) it belonged to my boss. I managed to lift myself up and scoot backwards enough to look around. Just what I feared. I was lying atop my boss, at the bottom of the ravine. Shit.

Another movement or two and I was pretty certain that I had somehow managed to make that spectacular tumble without accruing any more damage than a couple of tears in my jeans, a flailed elbow and cheek, and a spot on my thigh that was certain to be Technicolor by morning. But nothing was broken. Shit again.

I scrambled to my feet, eliciting another groan and I knew immediately why. A jagged piece of something eerily white was jutting through the dark cloth of his jeans, and set off by the darker stain of blood around it. For a moment, I struggled with the bile that rushed to my mouth. I had managed to break Walter's leg. Shit, shit, shitshitshit.

"S -- sir?" I knelt next to him. "Walter?" Oh, God, make him speak to me, please? Oh, God, don't let him say a word.

"I think ..." He was gasping. "I think my leg is broken."

I almost giggled. I'm attributing that to shock. "N -- no shit."

He lifted his head slightly and turned to look at me. Oh, damn it, his glasses were broken and hanging dizzily from his nose.

"Sir, don't move," I instructed.

He moved.

The bone did a little dance against the bloody fabric of his jeans.

He let out a roar.

I staggered away, struggling not to retch in front of him. When I returned I know my face was as white as the bone, waving at us from the ragged denim. He had somehow managed to move himself enough to lean against a tree, and he was frowning down at the injury the way one might frown at a flat tire. I suppose, with his glasses broken, maybe he couldn't see how bad it was. Surely he could feel it.

He looked toward me again. "Are you all right?" So much concern for me and none of my bones were in unauthorized places.

Because, again, he was seeing me as weak. I swallowed against the bitterness in my mouth and in my memory. "Yeah ... fine." I flicked a hand limply toward him. "Sorry about that."

He looked at the grotesque wound. "We'll have to immobilize it somehow."

I stared at him. How calm. How matter of fact. He might as well have been instructing me to get a tire and jack from the back of the truck. "Yes, sir," I agreed quietly.

He didn't look up this time. "Can you do it?" he asked.

I had seen it done in hospital emergency rooms. Never in the wilderness. Well, in movies, perhaps. "I think so."

He leaned forward. For a moment, I thought he was going to faint and I took an almost desperate lunge toward him.

He was merely inspecting the bone. "We'll need to pack it with something to protect it from dirt and leaves." He sent a glance over me. "Your undershirt should do."

I didn't have to be told twice. I tugged both shirts over my head without bothering to unzip the sweat jacket, surrendered the cotton tee and then tugged the jacket back into place.

I watched him work the shirt into an artful fold and lay it gingerly over the protruding bone. I winced before he did when the cloth brushed over exposed flesh and nerve endings. Why were the words to Gunga Din going through my head at that moment?

Having arranged the lopsided square the way he wanted it, he continued to frown at it. I was amazed he was thinking coherently, but there he was, tilting his head to one side as if trying to decide on a wine to go with supper. Then he nodded, and said with a sigh, "It's going to need a splint."

I nodded with him, as if I agreed completely. "Yes, sir."

He glanced around and I could tell by the way his eyes narrowed he was having difficulty remaining focused. "We'll need ... ah ... two sticks," he said with effort. "About ...." He lifted his hands and held them apart approximately two feet. "About ... this long." He looked at the distance between his hands and increased the distance another foot. "This long." He looked up at me. That is, he raised his head in my direction, but his eyes were closed. "Thick," he insisted. "Sssssturdy."

"Oh, shit," I muttered, with a gulp. He's going into shock. Suddenly, every moment of my Advanced Life Support Training abandoned me. I tried to think. Keep him warm. Don't let him sleep. Stop the bleeding. Don't move him for risk of back injury. Clear airways. Tilt head back ... fifteen compressions, two breaths ...

"Mulder?"

I looked down at him. He was folding his broken glasses into his pocket neatly. "Sticks."

"Right." I nodded sharply and began to look around. It was a flat dry stream bed, pretty much empty of everything but stagnant water, rocks and dried leaves. No sticks in sight. How could we be in the middle of a fucking forest and not have any sticks?

I took a step toward the bushes where I'd left my breakfast. Lots of twigs and bushes and foliage. I wandered a bit in another direction. Found one possibility. My elbow was starting to sting. I was feeling the chill in the air, despite my sweatshirt. Scuttled around, poking under branches and bracken, mumbling and grunting.

It must have taken me half an hour to find two sticks of similar length and diameter, smooth and straight enough to brace and immobilize his leg. When I returned with my triumph, his head was back against the tree, his face pale, his eyes closed. My moment of panic would have been heart-stopping except he lifted his head and blinked at me. "What did you do, Mulder? Plant the tree and wait for it to grow?"

If I hadn't just broken the man's leg, I would have told him to fuck off. Instead, I smiled politely and held the sticks out. "Will these do?"

I'll be damned if he didn't inspect them like a backdated 302. "We'll need something to tie them into place," he said, at length, looking up at me speculatively.

I shook my head. "I've already given you the shirt off my back. You don't get my jacket, too."

"I had some twine in my backpack," he said, and only then I realized he was looking over my shoulder, up the hill we'd tumbled down. "Any idea where it went?"

"I'll go see if I can find it."

"Sun's going down in four hours, Mulder," he said dryly. 

I did turn around and do the unthinkable. I extended one digit above the rest of my hand. He didn't see that eloquent finger. He had his head back against the tree.

*******************************************

I think he lied about when the sun went down. It seemed to get dark very quickly. And it got cold. We had immobilized his leg with sticks and twine, and kept the wound covered with my tee shirt without making him scream too loud. (In truth, he locked his jaw and did little more than grunt, even though I must have jerked that bone every direction but loose.) We had elevated his leg to stem the blood loss with a thick pile of leaves and his sweatshirt. Under his watchful, albeit blurry eyes, I built a small fire ring and got a nice little blaze going. For supper we had very squished sandwiches he had planned for our lunch and water from our canteens.

We didn't fill the time with any chatter. It was probably the longest period of silence I had spent with another human being since I left home. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and when he did there was no sign of pain, only irritation, growling at me to do this this way, or get that done right. I took it. After all, a dying man can't growl, right?

The forest decided to start making interesting and faintly threatening sounds once the sun left us. As they were not sounds I am ordinarily exposed to, I found them unnerving. So, despite his evident pain, he seemed to find my nervous twitches and jerks amusing, sitting there, grinning at me every time. And he nearly filled the darkness with roaring laughter when I produced my personal weapon out of the holster at my ankle. "You'll appreciate this when we're set upon by wolves," I snarled at him, tucking it into my pocket.

That only made him laugh louder.

It got darker.

It got quieter, making the snaps and rustles of small footfalls beyond us all the more alarming.

And it got colder. Despite my zipped up sweatshirt I was shivering. He had to be even colder. All he had was that light, flannel shirt, since we'd used his tee shirt as additional padding between the sticks and the wound. But occasionally I flicked him glances over the fire and he seemed to be oblivious to the chill. Well, I suppose when half your tibia is sticking outside your leg, cold isn't that big a deal.

I couldn't sit still. I was cold, it was dark, I was stuck God knows where, with my boss whom I very nearly did a spectacular job of murdering. How could life get any worse? But, I should have known better than to ask. Not me. I asked it, silently, shifting uncomfortably in front of the fire.

Okay, maybe worse is an exaggeration. But it wasn't much comfort to me that he noticed how uncomfortable I was, and decided to try being kind again.

"Mulder," he said quietly, when I got up to pace, rubbing my arms, distractedly. "That won't keep you any warmer."

"No?" I looked down at him. "Makes me think it will."

He shook his head. "I spent a lot of nights in the rain and cold. I know all about this. You need body heat. Come here."

I stood there, knowing a bowel movement was imminent. He was unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his broad, muscular ... bare chest. Okay. Maybe an orgasm was imminent. "Wh -- what do you have in mind, sir?"

He saw something in my expression. I know it. "Relax, Mulder," he growled. "Your virtue is safe with me. Unzip your jacket."

I dry swallowed and moved toward him.

He shifted carefully, moving the -- as yet -- unbroken leg far away from the damaged one. Then he patted his chest. "Come here. Skin to skin. We'll stay warmer that way."

Did he say warm? I think I went up in flames at that point. I didn't even try to argue or protest. I settled down on my knees, carefully, between his spread legs, my mind spinning in six different directions; terror, thrill, pain, pleasure, longing and dread. Not to mention intense arousal. He reached up to help me take my jacket off, and then encouraged me down against him, drawing the jacket over me like a blanket.

It was a moment so intense, so pure it was almost holy. There I was, in his arms, between his legs, against his flesh. On one hip, my legs were tucked under his, my cheek was against his collarbone. His arms lay lightly around my shoulders. I struggled with a desire to shift a fraction of an inch and kiss his bared body, to taste him, lick, suck, consume him. I felt a tremble run through me. A tremble of need, and fear that he would sense my need.

"It's okay, Mulder," he said quietly. "We'll get through this." And I swear he kissed the top of my head.

\- END chapter 03 -

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 04 - Willie or Wonie  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Seeing clearly in the black of night.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's note: To my beta-girl ... ain't this better than backgammon?

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 04 - Willie or Wonie  
by Mik

I slept.

I wouldn't have thought it possible, given the circumstances, but somehow, I drifted off in a big, warm cloud of Skinner embrace. Ignored the cold, the dark, the foreign sounds, the dire situation and let myself float on odd, mildly disturbing, incredibly arousing clouds of thought. Questions like how would his body, his kiss feel were answered in glorious color and sound. How did his kiss feel? Just like his body; hot, hard and heavy. Why was I wondering? I couldn't tell you.

At some point, however, the thought/dreams/questions became too much for my subconscious and, almost against my will, I found myself struggling back into wakefulness. I wish I could have remained asleep. I had an almost painful erection, nesting against Skinner's thigh. I couldn't move. I couldn't shift, adjust myself or, most importantly, relieve the pressure. All I could do was sit there and do an inventory of my nocturnal pole -- er -- poll-taking. All I could do was smell him, feel him, practically taste him. I think, at some point, I might have moaned in my frustration.

I must have done something anyway, because I felt the slumbering giant stir beneath me. "It's okay, baby," he grumbled, making a faintly soothing gesture against my shoulder. "It will be over soon."

When my heart resumed a normal beat, I grinned to myself. Who had he ever called 'baby'? It was hard to picture stiff necked, tight assed, A.D. Skinner ever speaking words of love to another human being. Of course, it was hard to imagine stiff necked, tight assed A.D. Skinner in lumberjack drag and traipsing around in anything wilder than The National Zoo. I knew he had been married, and that his marriage ended without much more than a whimper after a fiasco with a call girl. But beyond that ...

"Mulder," he grumbled again. "Be still."

I was still. Stock still. In dread. His tone was absolutely unchanged. Had I said or done something? I knew all my thoughts were right out of Manzlifedotcom but had I betrayed those thoughts in any way? Had I been talking in my sleep? Had I made some kind of inappropriate movement or caress? I risked shifting enough to tilt my head back in an effort to try and see his face.

Oh. What a face. Those sculpted lips turned up in a thoughtful frown. Those hot brown eyes were open. Even in the blackness of the moonless night, I could see the fire in them. Blazing into mine. Our mouths were only a breath away, and I was holding mine. Suddenly, that frigid air was electric. Something was going to happen. It had to happen.

I felt his hands move from my shoulders, and I waited for them to come around my throat. But they didn't. One hand came to the back of my neck and the other slipped up to hold my chin. "If you ever mention this to anyone," he said, and I felt more than heard the words, "I will claim I was delirious with pain." He kissed me.

Mayday! Mayday! Engines failing. Spiraling out of control. I squirmed around in his arms, trying to get back some of the oxygen he was sucking out of me. My bare arms ignored the chill of the night and wrapped around his neck like a life preserver. I felt myself humping against his thigh and making little noises that were certain to frighten wildlife, or at least make them laugh their furry little asses off.

Guess what ... my dreams were wrong. His kiss was surprisingly soft. His lips were warm and supple. His tongue was velvety against mine. His passion was more in the way he held my face still so that he could swoop in, plunder and back away again. I could actually feel him tremble with restraint as he nipped, sucked and licked at my lips, chin, even the tip of my nose. I couldn't help wondering what he'd be like if he let loose. Determined to find out, I slid my hand up, over the soft fringe of hair and held him still as I worked myself upward, closer, deeper ...

He pulled back. "Mulder."

I ignored him. "Yes, baby," I purred, hungrily. When had I ever called another human 'baby'?

"We are not going to do this."

"Do what?" I demanded mindlessly against his mouth. I was so close ... so close.

"Mulder." His fingers moved and clenched around my shoulders. "Mulder." He pushed me back, forced me to meet his eyes. "It is not physically possible to have sex around a compound fracture."

Shit. I stilled. Pulled away, scolded, chagrined, ashamed. "Yes, Sir." I sat up and tugged at my jacket. "Sorry, Sir."

"Mulder." He reached for me, and his tone was almost conciliatory, but I danced out of his reach. "Mulder, come on."

My hands were flapping in front of me, trying to wave the entire episode away. "It's all right ... it's -- it's forgotten ... my fault. It's okay." I avoided his eyes since they were all he could chase me with. "I don't know ..." There I stood, still sporting what is known in medical terms as a woodus magna. "I don't know ..." Started to pace away. "... how that ... Sorry."

"Mulder."

One word, fired like a bullet. I went still again. "Yes, Sir."

Those dark eyes held me pinned against the truth. "Why did you come up here?"

Oh, no, not that again. I looked around, searching for an alternate topic, an escape route, the strength to wrestle with the truth. Nothing presented itself. There were no answers in dry rocks and stagnant water.

"Mulder." This time it sounded faintly prompting.

I got belligerent. "Because you told me --"

"Mulder." Now it was definitely lethal.

I swallowed, hard. "Because, Sir, I wanted to, Sir." Oh, shit ... shades of high school and the infamous smoking in the bathroom scene. Anything more mortifying than trying to remain cool while being thoroughly chagrined for being caught?

And he wasn't satisfied with that confession. Oh, no. He wanted me to dig out my heart and hand it to him along with my entrails. "Why did you let me kiss you?"

I swallowed even harder. "Because, Sir ..." Okay, Mulder, if you've got 'em, show 'em. I grinned a little, searching for an insolence I was far from feeling. "You're a helluva kisser ... Sir."

He blushed. I could see it in the darkness. He clearly disliked being caught in a compliment so he shifted slightly so he could focus on the pain of his leg. "It was over the line, Agent," he said, gruffly. He looked down at the elaborately makeshift splint. "I'm sorry."

I came back to look down at him, staying just out of his reach. "Why did you bring me up here?" Recognizing just in time that my tone was out of line, I added, "Sir?"

He didn't look at me, but there was no reticence in his response. "Because I wanted to."

I felt a little ripple of something over my flesh; heat and chill and fingers of ... excitement? "Why?"

He continued to look down at his leg, those awesome lips pursed. "Agent, we don't need to --"

"Why, Sir?" For the first time since he came to my door I had the upper hand. I wouldn't surrender it.

He still didn't hesitate. "Because it was the right thing for you," he said with conviction.

"What the hell does that mean?" I demanded impatiently. I suddenly suspected there was something he could tell me, and damn it, I wanted to hear it.

"You know what it means," he answered gruffly.

"No," I lied. "I don't. What does it mean?"

He lifted his head and stared out into the blackness. "It means you needed a new focus in your life."

"And coming out into the wilderness and nearly killing you was a good choice?" I shot back, wheeling away from him angrily. Give me a break, Skinner, and just admit it. I'm not the only one wanting to wake up singing 'Getting To Know You.'

Something quirked around those sculpted lips. "Well, nearly getting killed wasn't on the original agenda."

Oh, dear God ... look at him, I thought, something clenching in my chest, in my belly. Barechested, ragged breath, huge brown eyes fixed on me, that merest hint of a winning smile. I was hooked, lost, helpless, vanquished. Ready to put my head on the chopping block. Ready to face a firing squad without cigarette or blindfold. Ready to fling myself headlong into a relationship that was foolhardy in the least and could be dangerous at the worst. And the very worst part ... I didn't know if I would be welcomed when I did the flinging. But I was determined to be flung.

I came back close to him, dropping to my haunches, warming myself in his gaze. "What was the original agenda ... Walter?"

Again he acted without the slightest moment of hesitation. He raised those two big paws of his and took my face between them, holding me gently, drawing me close enough to kiss me; a sweet, firm kiss filled with intent. He released me, his eyes sweeping over my flushed face. "I wasn't entirely sure, but I thought you felt something for me," he said, at length. He smiled again. "But I wanted to know."

I couldn't move. I continued to kneel there. "Do you know, now?" I breathed.

The pad of one thumb brushed over my cheek, infinitely gentle. "I think you do."

I leaned in again and returned his kiss, trying to match the sweetness. "I think you're right." I rocked back slowly, and felt the warmth and sweetness recede. "I don't understand it. I never thought I could want you -- want anyone so much," I confessed.

His smile was at once tender and forgiving. "I understand. It's a frightening thing to open yourself up to someone. You're very vulnerable when you do."

"Tell me about it," I agreed on a snort. "You had become an obsession for me, an addiction. Very unhealthy." Shit, Mulder. Waaaaaay wrong thing to say.

The smile faded and he looked down again. "And if you're not comfortable with that, I understand that too."

"Hey, whoa!" I protested. "Never play dangle and jerk with a man who has a gun in his sock. It could be dangerous."

He smirked at me. "Name one thing about you that isn't dangerous? A man can't even take a walk with you without meeting his deductible on the first date."

"Very funny, Mr. Valentino, Sir," I sneered. "Your idea of seduction is to freeze a man's balls off out in the middle of nowhere." My eyes skittered to his makeshift splint, and my heart constricted. "Walter, how are we going to get you to a hospital?"

It was like water rushing over him. I could actually see him recoil from an unpleasant reality. He thought for a moment and then looked upward. "The truck is northeast of us," he said, after consulting the stars. "In the morning you'll have to walk up and take the truck back down to the general store and use the phones."

I was looking up at the stars myself, wondering what the hell he saw that told him where we were. All I saw were millions of white dots behind the canopy of leaves. "Phones." I jerked. "Phones." I looked for his backpack and fumbled for a flashlight. He had a pretty lame flashlight for an AD; red plastic with a six inch battery well. And when I flipped it on, the beam was a pale, watery yellow. I missed my little, all purpose pencil thin mag light. I flicked it around and started moving.

"Mulder, where the hell are you going?" he barked as I started back over the stream bed.

"My phone is in my backpack," I called over my shoulder. "If I can find it, we can call someone right now. They can have a -- oh, shit!" Tumbled face first over a tree root.

"Mulder?" I could hear the anxiety in his voice.

I rolled over with a groan. Well, I wanted to break my leg ...

\- END chapter 04 -

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 05 - Safe or Out  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Morning rising on the dull grey barrel of a shotgun.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's note: To my mentors - with lots and lots of love. To my beta - 'bout damned time, huh?

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 05 - Safe or Out  
by Mik

Okay. I didn't break it. I realized that while lying there listening to Skinner bellowing my name. Well, granted, you-son-of-a-bitch is not, technically, my name, but it has been a long-standing nickname in my family.

After rolling around gingerly to do a visual and then a tentative reflex check, I pulled myself up against the tree that had waylaid me, and gave it a bitter kick. With the leg I hurt. Let me make a confession at this juncture. Brilliant is NOT a long-standing nickname.

But the yelp I emitted served to assure Skinner that I was still alive. He started shouting my name again. I used it to hone in on where I left him. I didn't need my missing mini mag light to see he was red-faced and anxious when I reappeared from the bush. But did he gush with relief upon seeing me upright and breathing? Um ... no.

"Find it?" he rasped.

For a moment, I didn't know what he was talking about. "Find what?" Then, of course, at that precise moment I realized I had gone in quest of my backpack and the lifeline to mercy -- my cell phone.

He gave me an open mouthed are-you-an-idiot look and then decided I was just being a childish jerk -- another long-standing nickname. "You think you're funny, don't you?" he said with an irritable sigh.

I limped near the dying fire and dropped gracelessly to the ground. "Hey, someone's got to keep a little spark in this relationship." I froze. Oh, shit. I said it. Relationship. A few half-asleep kisses and some pathetic groping does not a relationship make.

He didn't seem to hear what I said. He was glowering into the darkness. He's the only man I've ever met to whom I would ascribe the word glowering. "Do you think you can control your wanderlust until sunrise, and then go for the truck?"

"I suppose," I answered sullenly, rubbing my aching arm distractedly. The night was still making its eerie sounds but it was strangely quiet between us. I risked a glance in his direction. He was looking at me expectantly. "What?" I demanded peevishly.

He cocked a smile at me. "Get your ass back over here."

I'll tell you, I didn't need to be told twice. I scooted across the ground and settled back against his chest, trying to be still and recapture the moment; despite the fact that I hurt in places I didn't know I had places, and I could feel the top of one of the splints rubbing against the small of my back, and his skin was chilled from night air and blood loss. I struggled with a desire to smother him with concern. Knowing he would rather die than have me fuss over him, I convinced myself to err on the side of discretion.

Yet, after a few moments, it was clear he was not even trying to go back to sleep. I touched his arm. "Are you going to be all right?" I asked him, in a quiet, guilty voice.

"Mulder, I won't lie to you," he said, shifting carefully around me. "The damage could be significant, and the longer we're out here, away from medical aid, the lower my chances are for complete recovery."

I sighed.

"It hurts, Mulder," he finished.

Well, that got me. I felt tears sting again and I tried to pull away.

His arms tightened around me. "Mulder, it isn't your fault. This could have happened to me if I had been out here by myself. I could have tripped over that same tree root and ended up down here alone, and completely helpless."

"You? Helpless?" I snorted.

I felt him rub his cheek against my hair. "You'd be surprised how helpless I've felt on occasion."

Something in me turned to a soft, porous ... something ... mush. I felt myself dissolving within his embrace, soaking up his presence, being consumed ... I don't know. I just know I stopped being a whole and independent life form at that moment. I became something symbiotic. Someone who needed him to survive. I resented it and reveled in it. "I know what you mean," I agreed softly.

Something else was happening in me. My whole perspective of who I am and who I will become shifted. I wanted to save him. I wanted to be his rescuer, his hero, his white knight. And at the same time ... I just wanted him to hold me 'til the nightmare passed. And I felt the same confusion and desire swirling inside the very breast I rested upon.

*******************************************

We both slept. Despite the cold, despite his physical distress, despite my achy body, despite the insistence of everything furry on four legs to creep around and make threatening rustles in the leaves, we slept. Wrapped in one another's arms. Wrapped in the bewildering knowledge that we needed each other, wanted each other, and had been seeking each other. We slept.

And how do I know I slept? Well, the little night noises stopped making me flinch and jerk. In fact, little night noise making creatures rustled around just beyond us, came walking right up to us, and I didn't bolt upright and pull out my gun.

No, I didn't even stir 'til one of them nudged me with the toe of his boot and said, "What the hell is this, Sam?"

I opened my eyes and looked up into the eyes of someone whose neck was so red I could hear banjos dueling when he breathed.

I swallowed and struggled to sit up. I knew what they saw; two men snuggling one another, half naked, in the woods. "He ... um ... I broke his ... um ..." I let it go as I watched morning sun dapple the dull grey barrel of the shotgun tucked under his arm. Ohhhhh shit.

The one referred to as Sam was looking down at the performance art we called Skinner's Broken Leg. "How bad?"

I was startled by the soft, husky, feminine voice. For a moment all that mattered was that I had encountered a young female with brown hair, named Samantha. "P -- pretty bad," I stammered, heart racing. "Sticking out." I swallowed again. "Compound fracture of the tibia. I fell into him coming down the side of the ravine."

The unnamed male turned and blinked upward. "Hell of a fall." He looked down at me. "How are you feeling, aside from that shiner you're sporting?"

I touched my cheek self-consciously. "Better than he is." Sitting up straight, I tugged my jacket on, and looked back. It disturbed me that we had carried on this conversation with no sign that Skinner planned to join the party. The only thing that kept me from pounding on his chest and puffing into his mouth was the steady rise and fall of that nearly naked chest. "He's lost a lot of blood." I worked myself up to my feet, and let out a very unmanly yelp of pain as I settled on my sprained ankle. I then swore in a manly fashion and glanced at Sam. "I beg your pardon."

"This isn't exactly well-traveled terrain. What are you doing here?" the man asked me.

"We're camping up ..." I pointed, paused to remember which way Skinner had pointed the night before and shifted directions. "... there." I looked down at Skinner again. "His truck is up there. If we could get him back to the truck, I can get him to medical attention."

The man shook his head. "We'll never get him back up the hill that way," he declared, looking at Sam. "We might as well take them along to the lodge, don't you think?"

I looked at Sam. Upright it was easy to rule out that remote, yet ever present possibility that she might be related to me. She was easily as tall as I was, with dark brown hair, earnest, no-nonsense eyes. She looked more likely to be Skinner's sister than mine.

She was nodding. "I expect so. I could run up to the lodge and get some blankets to make into a stretcher."

She made it sound so simple. Maybe she didn't realize that a compound fracture meant that a bone was sticking outside his leg. However, given that these two seemed to be our ticket out of that creek bed, I decided to be gracious about it. "That would be great."

She slanted a look at me and then at Skinner. "Camping?" she said and there was meaning in her voice.

I met her no-nonsense eyes as directly as I could. "Yes."

She didn't challenge me or smirk. She looked back to the man who had come with her. He was not as tall. Dark skinned, with a face that looked as if he'd laughed into the sun a lot. "I'll be back in about an hour." She flicked a hand toward Skinner, still sleeping and still. "Better secure that splint." And she was off.

I have to admit, I watched her disappear into the foliage as if the forest was her friend. Yet, even as I was admiring her stride, her confidence, her pragmatic nature, I was thinking that those were the very qualities I found so irresistible in Skinner.

"Do either of you come equipped with names?" the man inquired.

I jerked a guilty look in his direction. He was scowling again. "Mulder. Fox Mulder." When his eyes dipped down to my sleeping beauty, I added, "Walter Skinner."

"And he's your ..."

"Boss," I said swiftly.

"Boss," he repeated and nodded, slowly.

"Boss," I insisted.

We didn't say much after that.

*******************************************

The lodge was hardly the rustic little cabin I was expecting. It was a regular A frame house with a boat dock at the back. A woman was weeding a small rose bed but she turned and straightened as our ragtag party stumbled out of the woods, shuffling sideways so that we could all give as much support to Skinner's makeshift stretcher as possible. Poor Walter was lying there, gripping the sides of the blanket, wide awake and wanting to explode in profane expression of his pain. Instead, he stared, stoically upward, avoiding my gaze as he rocked and rolled along the path.

They shuffled him off to a bedroom immediately, and consulted inside, while I was kept out in the dining room, consoled with a cup of coffee, and an ice pack for my ankle. I don't know what they did, but at some point there was an inhuman scream, that I must assume came from what was left of Skinner's body, and then a short while later, Sam emerged with all his clothes.

She tossed me a look as she passed through. "You can go see him now, if you like."

There have been many times in my career that I have regretted not having a camera on my person, but never more than that morning, walking into what was obviously the main bedroom, to find my boss -- that massive, intimidating, buttoned down behemoth sitting up in a rocking chair, his newly re-bandaged and re-splinted leg propped up on an ottoman and some pillows, draped modestly in a frilly, floral rayon thing that I believe is known as a house dress. The expression on his face when he saw me cross the threshold was one that said if I valued my life, my career, my ass, I would back up, turn around and forget I ever came in that room.

Did I?

No. I walked in, looked him over. Burst out laughing. I might have injured myself. I had to hold the bedpost to keep upright. I think I felt a little lightheaded.

"Are you through, Agent Mulder?" he said in his best Assistant Director voice.

I swallowed, hard. "I think so," I said in a weak voice, trying to turn my chortles into coughs. "Are you all right?" Only then did I risk another look at him.

He looked uncomfortable. Why the hell not? He broke --correction, I broke his leg. He had been rescued by and was at the mercy of strangers. He was in repose before a subordinate in nothing more than a fetching little morning frock. But I think it was something else. I think that, in the clear light of day, he was regretting something that happened in the dark of night, in the blinding blackness of passion.

I tried to ignore it, put him at ease, pretend it didn't happen. "What did they do?" I asked in an oddly strangled voice. "Except put you on Mr. Blackwell's list?"

"Shut up, Mulder," he snapped, tugging the garment together over his lap in an almost demure fashion.

"That's quite an ... um ... outfit," I said, forcing myself to snicker, because it was expected of me. "And a little frightening. I've seen the two females in this place and neither of them looks big enough to own a gown fit for --for you. There must be one huge mother-in-law roaming around here."

"Jay bought this for June," Skinner explained gruffly.

"Jay?" I repeated. "June?"

He gestured faintly with the hand that wasn't clutching the robe together.

"Um ... I've seen June ... she's about half your size."

"I know," he said tiredly. "You're not married, Mulder. You wouldn't understand. Men occasionally make purchases that are not ... ideally suited to their wives."

I let my eyes go over the intensely pink, frilly, oversized smock and decided that ol' Jay had definitely pulled a boner with this one.

It was obvious he didn't want me in there so I didn't linger much longer, even though I had done more damage to my psyche than my elbow and knew he was the only one who could heal it. I wanted to stay and find a way for Daddy to kiss this boo-boo and make it well. I backed toward the door. "Do you ... need anything?"

He gave me a long look that I wanted to interpret as meaningful yet couldn't. "No. Thank you."

Well, he couldn't have said it plainer. I answered with a jerky nod and left.

*******************************************

Jay found me slumped in a splitwood chair out in front of the lodge, watching ducks settle in the reeds at the edge of the water. "The medevac will be out in about two hours, Fox."

"Mulder," I mumbled.

"Pardon?" He squatted down at the step beneath me.

I tried to smile. "People call me Mulder."

He sat there quietly for a moment. "So ... how is he?" he asked at length.

"Oh, he'll survive." I sat up, realizing how ungracious I was being. "I don't know what you did to him, but he looks much better."

Jay smirked at me. "We just held on. Sammie did all the work. She's our vet."

"And she didn't recommend putting him down?" I asked wryly. Boy, I would.

Jay smirked again. "So ... this is pretty new to you?"

I slanted him a narrow eyed glance. "What?"

"You and your ... boss." He looked over his shoulder. "You just meet?"

I looked over my shoulder. "Oh, no, it's not like that."

"Don't kid the man who rescued you, Mulder. It isn't nice."

I met his dark gaze directly. "It isn't like that. It was just a ... a fluke. Something that happened in the heat of the moment. He was delirious with pain."

"He seemed pretty coherent a little while ago. And very concerned about you."

I shrugged it off. "He's my boss. That's his way."

He nodded and stood, reaching over to pat my knee as he did. "The girls and I are headed back to the farm. Leave the key under the mat when the medevac comes, will you?"

I stood up with him, startled. "You're leaving?"

"Have to get back to the farm early. I start planting tomorrow." He looked at me, as if he was going to say something, then shook his head.

"Um ... Jay ... um ... thank you. For everything."

He nodded and went inside.

*******************************************

Samantha was the last one to leave the lodge. She passed me as I stood on the porch watching Jay load up the van with careless precision. Extending her hand she pressed a key and a card into mine. "There's the key to lock up. That's Jay's email if you need it for anything. Your boss's clothes are folded on the dryer." She moved toward the first step, paused and looked at me. "Good luck," she said on a wink, and was gone.

I watched Jay back the van up the drive and away, getting cheery waves from all three. Then I scanned the skies for signs of help.

At last I went inside. I'd given it a great deal of thought the last couple of hours, and I had come to the conclusion that I wasn't going to walk away from this. If he didn't want me, he was going to have to say the words. Oh, sure, they'd kill me, but I'd die knowing where things stood.

He was still in the rocker, a magazine open on his lap, his head tilted back, as if he'd been trying to sleep, but he lifted his head as I came in. "Yes, Mulder?"

"They're gone," I told him. "They gave me their email. I guess they want us to keep in touch."

"I can't believe they just left us here, in their lodge," Skinner murmured.

"Well, maybe there's a dead body on the premises and we'll be caught with it instead of them," I answered cheerily. "Actually, Jay said if he couldn't trust agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he couldn't trust anyone. I guess we're lucky we're not Internal Revenue agents."

That made him snicker. "We'd be dead."

I came around beside him and perched on the edge of the bed. "Um ... Walter ..."

He put up a hand. "It's all right, Mulder. I let things get out of hand."

"Yes, but --"

"I apologize and promise you there will be no further liberties taken."

"I want liberties taken," I protested, throwing my hands wide. "Please ... take liberties."

He frowned at me. Just the way Daddy ought to frown at a wisecracking son. "Agent Mulder, it would be detrimental to our working relationship, disastrous to your career."

"My career?"

"You're much more vulnerable than I am," he reminded me. "I can't pull you into a relationship that could put you in jeopardy."

"I think I should be allowed to make that choice," I countered.

"Mulder, I've been giving this a lot of thought, and I --"

"And so have I." I stood up and looked down at him. "Walter ... do you want me?"

He was startled by the directness of the question. "Yes," he said, at length. "I do."

Everything from my throat to my balls clenched. I barely managed to swallow and squeak out the words, "And I want you."

There was a long silence. We stared at each other. His eyes were so hot I could smell the smoke rising off my own body. My heart was thudding loudly. My groin was starting to ache. At last, he opened his mouth. "It's lunacy. We won't do this."

I smiled to myself. He wanted to but he wouldn't. But he wanted to. Shakily, I dropped slowly to my knees between his separated legs. Almost daintily, I lifted the gown away from his body. There it was, that object of my affections, stirring, darkening, one drop of desire already sparkling on the crown. I took a deep breath and lifted it almost lovingly from its nest, my fingers circling the sac and base carefully, guiding it to just the right angle, and opened my mouth.

He let out a low groan, and let his head fall back in surrender.

I had never done this before. The bitter taste was a surprise, but it wasn't an unpleasant one. After a moment, I became accustomed to it, even hungry for it, and began to lap around the crown like a puppy. Flicking a glance up at his face, twisted in torment and need, I smiled and settled down, taking the whole thing in, as deep as I could, 'til I couldn't breathe. And began to suck.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the whup-whup-whup of the medevac's chopper. By the time it settled at the dock below the house, the roaring rotors only barely drowned out the roar of Skinner's orgasm.

\- END chapter 05 -

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 06 - Take it or Leave  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Choices made, costs deferred.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's note: For Beta-Goddess, to whom I bequeath all my Peeps. And to Lambchop. That buzzing sound you hear isn't always Daddy's chain saw.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 06 - Take it or Leave  
by Mik

I saw him hobbling down the corridor and I stopped. No. I froze. My heart stilled, my brain ceased to generate electrical impulses, my blood chilled to ice in my veins. I hadn't seen him alone since I swallowed him whole in a rocking chair and morning dress, and I didn't know what to do or say, or if I even wanted to do or say anything.

Oh, we'd seen quite a lot of each other since then. In fact, I rode in the helicopter to the hospital. We didn't talk during the ride, however. The doc on duty had decided the trip would be easier on Skinner if he slept through it. One needle stick later, it was night-night, Wally. If anyone noticed traces of semen on his personal parts, they kept the find to themselves, and no one looked at me once, much less twice. So, instead of holding his hand, stroking his hair and comforting him the way it always happens in the movies, I was strapped in, glassy-eyed, staring out the window, and terrified that he might mumble something revealing, now that he was doped to the wire-rims.

I'd hung around the hospital a couple of days, hoping for a chance to at least ask him if it was good for him. I never got that chance. People I didn't know came out of the linoleum and hovered around him so that I only got glimpses of him, or brief audiences with him with a phalanx of family members around him. I finally gave up and went on home.

I didn't go around his place after he was brought home, but I sure spent a lot of time with my brand new cell in my hands, hoping for an invitation. It didn't come. Finally, I got up enough courage to dig his truck keys from the remnants of his camping rig (which, I confess, I swiped from the laundry room before I locked up Jay and June's lodge), and convinced Scully to drive me back up to the scene of the crime.

Scully didn't seem all that surprised that my vacation had been spent in some remote part of Outer Wildernessville. Nor did she find it particularly surprising that I was off outside of humanity's realm with my boss. She was only surprised to find our campsite basically unmolested after ten days of neglect. I explained we were so removed from all life-forms they had to ship in bears to wreck the place and they were apparently back ordered.

I felt achingly close to him, taking down the tent, packing up the equipment and loading his truck. Sliding behind the wheel of that monstrous thing, I had an irrational urge to hug that massive steering wheel, but Scully was sitting in her car, waiting for me to lead her back down the mountain, and I couldn't give in to my longing to be in intimate contact with something of his. I put the radio on his oldies station, cranked it up and imagined he was with me all the way home. I only just refrained from talking out loud to him.

It took me another two days to get the nerve to take the truck and camping equipment back to him. I didn't call, just showed up at the door, hoping for ... I don't know what. What I do know is I didn't get it. A strange woman answered the door and invited me in. He was sitting in his living room, his casted leg elevated, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was appropriately cordial and grateful that I had made the trip to rescue his truck, but there didn't appear to be an undercurrent of warmth, longing, urgency or love. I don't know what I was expecting but it was a damn sight more than 'That was very considerate of you, Agent.'

Well, shitty as it felt, it answered a lot of questions for me. Gave me 'closure' as we psychologists are so fond of saying. My closure came in the form of a kick to the gut.

I'd done okay after that. I didn't see him and I kept myself busy, taking every shit assignment that would get me into another time zone. Six weeks passed in a blur, and now I hardly hurt at all.

But there he was, making slow progress down the hallway, on his way to the Coke machine. If I had moved a moment sooner, I could have ducked into a supply room but I didn't, and he saw me.

I didn't expect the expression on his face. It was one of dismay. Had he hoped I'd somehow vanished during his recovery? I managed to swallow and I glanced away, shoved my hands in my pockets and wheeled in the other direction. If I'd harbored any hopes that we could make something out of that little spark on the mountainside, he'd dumped Coke all over them.

Downstairs, I slunk into the office, and settled at my desk, and glanced over a stack of mail dumped in the middle of other stacks of mail and files I'd ignored lately. Scully wasn't there, so it was a struggle to refrain from tipping the whole desk over and kicking something ... hard. Instead, I picked up a letter opener and began to slit envelopes, and fantasized about slitting throats.

Not too deep into the pile, I came across a small card. A note from Jay and June and Samantha, wondering how Walter was, and I got the strangest feeling they weren't inquiring about his leg. I was tempted to fire off an email demanding 'How the hell should I know? The man can't bear to look at me', but before I could, Scully appeared, looking bemused and announced we were wanted upstairs.

"Why?" I snarled.

She reacted to my tone the way a cat would to sudden movement, pulling back but tracking keenly. "I wasn't given the precise reason, but I think the fact that our Director asked for us, should be reason enough."

"Because I said so ... is that it, Mommy?"

She did a classic Scully pose, fists on hips, head cocked ever so slightly to one side. "What the hell is wrong with you, Mulder? You've been acting so ..." She stopped and those little blue eyes glowed. "You're afraid to see him, aren't you?"

I gulped. "Afraid to see him?" I attempted to sneer. "Don't be --"

She nodded, convicted. "Because of what happened up there."

"Wh -- what happened?" I echoed. Oh ... shit ...

"You broke his leg and you're afraid he's going to make you pay for it for the rest of your career. Is that why you've been meekly accepting all these scut assignments lately? Some sort of penance on your part?"

"That's just a little too Catholic for me, don't you think, Scully?" I sneered successfully that time and pushed myself away from my desk, relief pouring off me like sweat from a sumo wrestler. "Come on. Let's get the command appearance over and then I'll make you eat those words on communion wafers."

I want an Academy Award for my performance in his office that afternoon. I was cheerful, respectful, happy to see him back. Well, okay. I didn't slump in my chair, bite my nails and pout. He did give me a sort of once over look when I came in, but that might be because my tie was loose and my collar unbuttoned. I took quick measures to rectify that before I sat down.

Scully was her usual, professional self, asking after his progress without being too invasive, showing the right amount of approval/appreciation for his treatment and recovery. The conversation focused mainly on what we'd got up to in his absence. He noted several cases that we had been involved in that seemed to be a waste of our 'special skills'. However, as we had closed the cases without fatalities or great expense to the taxpayers, he wasn't going to complain.

The only time he addressed anything to me was to note I hadn't taken all the time off I had requested. He urged me to take the time. Soon. Get outta' Dodge, Mulder, this town ain't big enough for the two of us. I told him, in a perfectly affable manner, that I'd had far too much vacation for my own good. The meeting ended on that note.

"Could you have been a little more juvenile, Mulder?" Scully scolded as we reached the elevator.

"Well, sure, if I had tried," I answered. "What are you talking about? I was a model of maturity back there."

"'I think I've already had more vacation than I needed ... Sir'," she said in an eerily and annoyingly accurate deadpan imitation, as she jabbed the elevator call button.

"Well, it's true," I argued, following her into the chamber. "I don't do well outside captivity. I ... er ... break things."

"You mean, like Skinner's leg?" she chuckled.

"Exactly," I agreed. And my heart.

The door to our floor opened, but Scully paused and looked back at me. "You know, in all the years I've known you, you'd think I'd understand every gear and wheel in that gizmo you call a brain. You still manage to surprise me sometimes." And she left, shaking her head as she went.

*******************************************

I took Jay's note home and tried to compose a response that was reassuring without telling him his assumptions about us were both right and wrong. The words refused to come to me. As skilled as I've become at writing 302s in a manner which will get them approved without actually lying about the circumstances, I couldn't find a way to say, 'Yes, I wanted him, he didn't want me.' I wanted to believe it was just my basic male pride that was wounded. How could anyone not want me? The only problem with that logic was that I could come up with lots of reasons against setting a course against my star. If I truly was the catch of the century, our little Starbuck would have had me hove to long before now. Oh, Lord, I'm waxing in metaphors ...

So, there I sat, struggling over a scribbled note when my cell phone rang. At first, I thought I might ignore it. Then I thought it might be Scully so I picked up and mumbled the standard 'Mulder' into the phone.

"Agent Mulder."

And then my heart went to my shoes, and jumped back up to my throat, nudging my balls along the way. "Yesssssir."

"I wanted to thank you again for going to all that effort to bring my truck home after the ..." he paused.

"Unfortunate incident, Sir?" I supplied helpfully.

"Accident," he amended. "But in going through my equipment I notice you left something of yours here. Do you think you could come over this evening and pick it up?"

I'll be damned if that brusque son of a bitch didn't just hang up then, without so much as waiting for a response from me. He didn't even tell me what I left behind. All that mattered to him was something of mine was taking up his precious space.

So, why was I walking out the door three minutes later? Because sad, sick little puppy that I am, I needed to see him again. Had to. It was mandatory. It was CPR for a coding cardiac condition. Mine. All the way down there I tried to envision some witty little repartee that I could begin that would make him believe he made a mistake by undoing the mistake he made out there. The trouble is ... I'm not really that clever. Cynicism and a sneer do not witty make.

He yanked the door open almost before I finished knocking. For a moment, we just stood there, staring at each other. Then I tried to regain my senses and stammered a lame, "Are you going to let me in?"

He backed up and allowed me to cross the sill. "Care for a beer?" he offered on a false note.

I shook my head. "Just give me my stuff and I'll get out of your ..." I stopped. Swallowed hard. Well, so much for witty repartee.

He slid his hand over that shining dome. "While I have you here, Agent, I wanted to discuss the ... uh ... incident ..."

I gave him an innocent look. "Which incident, Sir?"

He opened his mouth, and then closed it, smiling knowingly. "You don't have to play let's pretend here, Agent. There's no one here but the two of us. And I'm willing to admit something happened. Why shouldn't you?"

I looked around the room, wondering what his game was. He'd made it clear he was unhappy we'd let things get out of hand. Why was he dredging it up now? "What is there to discuss, Sir? You feel we had a lapse in judgment, that's all. And I --"

"You don't feel it was a lapse in judgment?" he challenged.

"What I feel is immaterial," I retorted. "The important thing is, it happened and now we're going to forget about it."

"What you feel is hardly immaterial, Agent Mulder." He actually took a step into my personal space. But then, he's always liked to use his size as intimidation. And you know what ... it works. I backed up a step. "What do you feel, Agent Mulder?"

Like I wish you'd stop calling me Agent Mulder, I thought frantically. Call me Mulder, call me Fox. Hell, call me darling, lambchop, my little monkey muffin, but stop calling me Agent Mulder. "I f -- feel ..." Oh, smooth. Stammer all over the place like an adolescent one word away from puberty. "I think ..." I backed up another step. "Look, just tell me what I left here and I'll go, okay?"

He had been watching me intently, but my desperate question seemed to break the spell. "What?"

"You said I left something of mine here," I reminded him. "What was it?"

"Oh." He took another step nearer. "Me."

In the next moment, I was in his embrace, wrapped up in big bear arms, being kissed as if he could touch my soul with his tongue. It took me a full minute to understand what had just happened, and to make my spaghetti arms wind themselves around him.

The moment he felt me giving in to him, he had me pinned against a wall, sucking at various parts of my face, neck and throat, while those big paws of his tore at the buttons on my 501's and jerked them down past my knees. In another minute, he had scooped his hands up under my butt and lifted me just enough to plant me very firmly on the table in the hallway.

I was too far gone to protest or encourage him. I might have bitten his lower lip about the time I felt his hand curl around me and start a nice easy pumping motion, but if I did, he didn't seem to care. It was with great effort that he tore his mouth from mine and went down on his knees between my parted bare legs, to draw me into his mouth.

One inch into that hot mouth and I was moaning, writhing, banging my head back against the wall. But he wasn't content with that reaction. Precisely at the moment when I was about to confess to every sin in Christendom, he wormed one finger between my cheeks, probed around, found center and drove it home.

I came off that table, shouting epithets and epiphanies, locking my knees around his head and thrusting for all I was worth. "Ohhh, shit, fuck, damn!" I moaned, letting go. My whole being rushed up and spilled out of me, into his mouth, where he was swallowing greedily, and lapping up any wayward drops. This boy, I thought, in my downward spiraling consciousness, has sucked a cock before. And I slumped all the way off the table, and down into his arms.

When I finally opened my eyes, he was smiling down at me. No, make that a grin. "Well?" he asked.

"Oh, very well," I agreed, breathlessly.

He pulled me up against him, rocking my body slightly. "How do you feel about this, Mulder?"

"I feel very optimistic, Lambchop," I answered drowsily.

He pulled back and looked down at me. "Lambchop?"

I smiled, blissful. "Monkey muffin?"

He shook his head, but I could tell there was a giggle in there just waiting to get out. "I don't think so."

"Oh, very well." I nestled down against him, completely devoid of any spark of animation. "Thank you, Lambchop, Sir. That was ..." I sighed like a teenage girl. "... wonderful."

"Mulder." I felt him shift his arms, encouraging me upward. "Do you think you can negotiate the stairs by yourself or are you still too fuck drunk to climb them?"

I opened my eyes and tsked him softly. "What a potty mouth, Lambchop, Sir."

"Yeah, I noticed the delicate prose you were uttering a few minutes ago." He pushed me out of his lap and stood. Then he did something that only a genuine Daddy/Lumberjack/Lambchop could do. He bent, collected me under the arms and pulled me up and over his shoulder, my head and arms draped down his back to admire his ass (an attribute I had grown remarkably fond of in recent months), and my own derriere, bared and resting ... um ... cheek to cheek with him.

"Um, where are we going, Lambchop, Sir?" I asked when I was through admiring the way the muscles in his butt moved as he mounted the stairs.

"It's bedtime for good little agents."

"Um ... Mr. Lambchop, Sir, my bed's that-a-way," I pointed, even though I was pointing behind him and he probably couldn't see.

He smacked my bared cheeks hard. "Call me Lambchop again and I'll show you what I've always wanted to do to this ass."

Well, that sent a shiver through me. I didn't think he was making a pass at me. I think he was threatening to spank me. "But ... my bed is --"

I was dumped, unceremoniously, onto his bed. "This is your bed, until further notice." He knelt, untied my shoes, tugged my jeans all the way off, and tucked me almost tenderly into bed. Then he leaned up and kissed my brow. "Good night, Mulder."

I laid there for a moment, letting the last of the exquisite delirium leave me before I sat up. "Um ... Skinner ... Walter ... I can't really spend the night here."

He returned from what turned out to be the bathroom. "You can. You will." He was stripping out of his own slacks.

I watched him for a moment, awed by the precise way he did things, from taking off his slacks, to directing his department, to choosing a homosexual affair with a subordinate. "We can't really do this, Sir," I murmured.

He looked back at me. "Why?"

"Well, because ... fraternization ... and ... Hoover's dresses and ... and ..." I stopped and looked at him helplessly. "This isn't exactly the smartest choice you could have made, Sir."

"Oh, no doubt," he agreed. He came back to the bed and pushed me back into the pillows. "There is a cost for every choice we make in this life, Mulder. But I'm still choosing this. Do you know why?" He caught my chin and tilted upward, so that I had to meet his eyes. "Because I love you. Have for years. And I choose you over all the things they'll take away from me for loving you." He let his hand fall away. "I suppose the real question is what do you choose?"

I looked up at him, remembering what he said when I asked him what I had left behind. "You," I said firmly. "I choose you."

\- END chapter 06 -

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 07 - To be or Not to be  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Skinner gives Mulder a whole new definition for letters to Santa.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's note: I want to ride my bicycle ... I want to ride my bike ... Queen

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 07 - To be or Not to be  
by Mik

I woke with a start. Nothing unusual for me. I usually wake up with my heart in my throat, pulse racing, in a sweat. But this particular morning, I just ... woke up.

I was aware instantly that something unusual had happened, however. It was not just that the streetlight was playing on the ceiling at a different angle, or that the surface supporting my body was not hard and lumpy, or that I was wearing nothing but a tee shirt. No, what struck me was that I had made a life altering decision and then slept. Really slept. As if I had been waiting my whole life to get to this place, and now I could relax.

I turned slowly, so as not to wake my life altering decision, and considered him in that hint of daylight. He looked like my boss, asleep. Okay, I know that sounds obvious, but you know how people always say that you look younger or at peace or something when you're asleep? The implication being that we lose the ability to hold up those masks we must wear day to day and we must just be ourselves, whoever that might be. Not him. He looked exactly the same asleep. Strong, decided, in command. It was comforting and at the same time, disconcerting.

As I watched him, he shifted, sighed, rolled toward me, his hand coming to cup my hip as if he just expected me to be there. His hand was warm, heavy and firm against me. It felt good. It felt as if I was claimed, owned, loved. I didn't even want to breathe and risk breaking the moment.

Movies are so unfair. In the movies, the two lovers have an epiphany, the magic moment when their love is realized and defined, usually to a crescendo of music and then a fade to black. Nothing else matters. But this wasn't the movies, and try as I might to lie still and bask in the enormity of the situation, my bladder said I had to move. With a muffled groan, I eased his hand away from me and sat up. Glancing over, I saw his glasses, neatly folded on the bedside table.

Then I had an epiphany. Shit, I was in bed with my boss. Even if one of us was a woman, it was an incredible breach of protocol, to say the least. But the fact that we were two men ... oh, hell, just back us up against the wall, offer us a blindfold and shoot our careers to oblivion.

"Where are you going, Mulder?" he mumbled as I scooted off the bed faster than a cockroach when the kitchen light goes on.

"Ummm ..." I swallowed and flicked a thumb over my shoulder. "I really should ... um ... you know, get going."

"It's Saturday, Mulder." Even in sleep his voice was a bear-like growl. "You don't need to go anywhere."

"Well, yeah, I've got ..." Oh, come on, couldn't I at least have a lawn to mow, or grocery shopping to do or something that everyone else does on Saturday mornings?

He shifted and buried his face in my pillow, but I could still hear him when he said, "You don't need to go anywhere."

Well, I guess that settles that. "How about the bathroom?" I suggested weakly. "I really need to go to the bathroom."

He lifted his head and blinked at me. "Mulder?"

I was backing toward the door. "Yessssssir?"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." I tried a little grin. "Just nature calling. Urgently," I added for effect.

He rolled onto his back. Muscles rippled deliciously over his body. Yeah, I said deliciously. My mouth watered. "I'll make us some coffee." With one fluid motion he was up and striding across the room, naked.

I think I started to shake. I wanted him. I wasn't exactly sure what I wanted other than to make some intimately physical connection with him. "Yeah," I said when he had draped himself in a long terry robe. "That sounds good."

He turned and reached down, giving my balls a little tweak, where they appeared beneath the hem of my tee. "Good look for you, Mulder." He winked as he turned away.

Oh, great. I'm supposed to urinate now? How?

********************************************

When I stumbled downstairs, tucking my shirt into my jeans, he was bustling around the kitchen. Something was being done to coffee beans in a massive copper and enameled creation, and whatever was going on in there, my nose told me those beans had not died in vain. He was doing something in a bowl. And a pan. And the stove. Hey, did you know there's fire in those things? I thought it was storage space. "Smells good," I told him, not really certain what else could be said.

"It is." He looked over his shoulder at me. "Sit."

I dropped into a chair. "Yes, Sir."

"Don't call me 'Sir'," he said. It wasn't quite a command. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Preferably from chickens." Oh, shut up, Mulder. You always get smartass when you're nervous.

He shifted just enough to give me a quick but thorough study. "Will you relax, Mulder?"

"I am relaxed," I protested, and damn it if my voice didn't squeak when I said that. "I like my eggs cooked all the way through. Not runny." I stood. "Beyond that, I don't care." I risked moving closer, peering into the pan. Well, that's what he thought I was doing. I really just wanted to get closer.

Maybe he knew what I really wanted. He leaned back just a bit. "Scrambled all right? I always break the yolks, anyway, when I try to flip them over."

"Scrambled is fine," I mumbled mindlessly. He smelled so good. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and pull him against me. I felt very illicit standing there, sneaking whiffs of his undeniably masculine scent. Even as I reveled in the heat of him so close to me, I know I had an ear cocked for the sound of the door being kicked down, the shouts and badges and cameras and shame. I backed away. "I can't ... we can't do this." I shook my head and blinked back what just might have been tears.

He frowned at me, put the spoon down and turned, catching me by the shoulders just before I got completely out of his reach. "What do you mean, we can't do this?"

Even as I was babbling out some nonsensical explanation for our nonsensical behavior, he was urging me back into a chair. Then he knelt in front of me, his hands on my arms, holding me in place with the touch of his fingers. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with words. "Mulder ... was I wrong ... don't you feel anything for me?"

Oh, the sound of potential anguish in his voice. I shook my head. "No, you're not wrong." Feel something for you? Mr. A.D., Sir, you have no idea. "But this ... we can't do this."

"Why?"

"Why?" I arched a brow at him. How the hell did you rise the ranks in the Bureau and still remain so thick? "Skinner, we're two men. We work for the EFFF BEEE EYE."

He nodded. And waited.

"Don't you get it?" I demanded, exasperated. "We're committing professional suicide."

"And when did that ever bother you before?" Something in his eyes dimmed, his hands moved, he backed away and stood. "Tell the truth, Mulder. This isn't about the Bureau. This isn't about being gay. This is about you and me. You don't want me."

"I don't ... I ... gay?"

He gave me a sour smile. "What did you think you were, Mulder?"

"I don't ..." I frowned at the floor, feeling like six feet two inches of fool. "I guess I hadn't thought about it."

He shook his head. "Why am I not at all surprised?"

"Okay." I drew a deep breath. "Homosexual means being attracted to the same sex as yourself. Based on my limited research, you and I are the same sex. I am very definitely attracted to you. I guess that makes me gay." Something astounding occurred to me. I know I gaped as I looked up at him. "Does that mean ... are you gay?"

He gave me a standard issue I-don't-believe-you-asked-me-that stare and growled, "Don't ask stupid questions, Mulder."

"But you were married." I know how stupid it sounds, but it really did come tumbling out of my mouth.

He shifted to a can-you-really-be-that-moronic-Mulder stare. "What has that got to do with it?"

"You're right. Nothing." I shook my head, trying to clear it.

He stirred at the egg mixture in the pan.

Silence hung heavy between us.

"Was it because of the war?" I asked, desperate to break the silence.

He looked over his shoulder. "The war?"

"Yeah, you know ..." I stopped, fumbling again. "The ..." I pointed at nothing in particular. "... Viet Nam war?"

"I know which war, Mulder." He scooped eggs onto a plate. "I just don't know what it has to do with this conversation."

"I thought, maybe ... you know ... far from home ... no women ..." I stopped, feeling smaller and more idiotic by the moment. I pulled my chair out. "I'll shut up and eat my eggs."

"Good plan," he told me, setting the plate before me.

He brought me coffee a moment later. "And for the record, I've been gay as long as I've been aware of sexuality. I tried marriage because I thought it might change me. It did not."

I risked a look at him. "Why did you want to change?"

Now it was merely a mild are-you-serious stare. "Oh, I don't know ... maybe because I was a Marine. Or because I worked for the EFFF BEEE EYE."

I smiled helplessly around my coffee cup. "I'm sorry ... Walter."

He shrugged and brought a cup of coffee for himself and sat. "What about you?"

"Me? Oh, well ..." I decided to scrutinize myself and be brutally honest. "I haven't a clue. I never had any inclinations before. I mean, I've looked at guys before. At the gym and things like that. And I've watched some gay porn." I shook my head ruefully. "That's it." Other than weeks of obsessing on you, oh great burly Daddy-god.

He was frowning into his coffee. "You know ... I've never enjoyed pornography -- gay or straight. I've always wanted a relationship with the people I fantasize about, or eroticize."

"Whereas I tend to dehumanize them," I confessed. "Reduce them to their genitalia and forget them."

"Really?" He looked mildly horrified.

"Well, with porn, anyway," I said hastily, and then added, "I haven't had a lot of relationships. No successful ones." I toyed with the eggs. "Did your wife know?"

He nodded. "I had a couple of serious relationships before Sharon and I married, and I felt she had a right to know about them. I was always physically faithful to her," he added quickly. "I guess I was even emotionally faithful to her until I ..." He stopped, flicked a look at me, and looked at his coffee, "until a few years ago."

I didn't have an answer to that. So I took a bite of eggs. "These are really good. Why aren't you having any?"

His brows arched in mock horror. "Are you kidding? All that cholesterol?"

"Ha ha." I took another bite. "These really are good. Walter ... do you cook?"

"Some." I had a feeling his idea of some might match the rest of the world's idea of a whole lot.

I looked down at my half empty plate. I looked up at him. I was hungry, but it wasn't for eggs. "Did you ... do you like the ... um ..." I sighed, hard. I wanted something. I wanted to know what it was all about. How it felt. Would I like it? Would I regret it? Should I stick to oral sex since it was something safe and familiar? Should I get up, run-not walk to the front door and keep going, never looking back?

"Yes, Mulder, I do."

And he can read minds. Damn it, no fair! "I've seen it in gay porn and the guy who's getting it never looks like he's having a good time."

I heard him chuckle.

"Well, they don't," I insisted defensively.

"That's because they aren't doing it right," he asserted.

"You said you'd never seen it!" I protested.

"If they're in pain, they're not doing it right." Suddenly, he leaned over and patted my wrist. "Don't worry, Mulder, it's not mandatory. Plenty of other things we can do, as you know."

I blushed. I did know. I had relived those moments in Jay and June's lodge for six weeks, the feeling of his long, smooth cock slipping in and out of my mouth, the taste of copper and salt as he flooded me, the incredible sense of power, completion and pure, giddy joy. Oh, yes, I did know.

And then ... well, what about last night? I don't know what he was thinking, or if he was thinking, but what he did to me spit in the face of every oral fantasy I've ever had. He did not merely lick or suck or caress, he consumed me. Devoured me, took in more than semen, he took my whole soul. And I gave it up in a mindless, grateful paroxysm of pleasure. Was it possible to feel more?

He must have felt my confusion, desire and fear wrestling around in the mudring of my psyche because he squeezed my wrist and said softly, "Eat your eggs, Mulder."

I watched him get up and go about the process of putting his kitchen back in order. Wouldn't you know Walter Skinner wouldn't be able to tolerate dirty dishes in his sink? Despite the loose fit of that long robe, I knew the muscles and lines of the body beneath and I wanted to see it, touch it, examine it ... claim it. That was it ... I needed to claim it, claim him. I needed to make the statement, even between us, that I chose to love and be loved by him. The problem was I didn't know how.

I pushed my plate away. "Ummm ... can I help? I'll try not to break anything."

He shook his head. "No, you're the guest."

Guest. Why did that word sting? Because it sounded temporary. Because it sounded as if I didn't belong here. Wounded, I stood, and moved toward the door. I stalled there. No, damn it, this isn't going to be like that. I turned around, reached for him, and held on until he looked at me. "I don't want to be a guest, Walter."

He continued to look at me for a long time. Just looking. Then he put the pan down, and slid his free hand up my arm. Slowly, making every hair on my body stand at attention. At the nape of my neck, his fingers clenched slightly and pulled me forward until his mouth met mine. Deep, invasive kiss. Who was claiming whom?

My arms went around him without waiting for direction from me. Worming into his robe, my fingers sought the heated, firm flesh and stroked. Our bodies came together by mutual arrangement and held fast. His tongue petted its way through my mouth while my hands explored his back, hips, cheeks. I wanted him. I didn't know how, but somehow I needed him. I just wanted mutual nakedness and total body to body contact.

I have no memory of leaving that spot but I found myself on the floor of his living room, my shirt gone, my jeans open, one of his bear-like arms around my shoulders holding me in place while his free hand pulled and rubbed between my legs. I was speaking in tongues at that point, wild, desperate promises never made on this or any other planet.

I was clinging to him, breathing hard into his neck while he licked over my throat and chest. I could feel him pressed against my thigh, even through my jeans the pre-cum pooling there was hot and copious. "Please," I panted. "Please."

He lifted his head and looked down into my eyes, hell, into that vacant pool that once held my soul. "What do you want, lover?" he asked with incredible tenderness.

Llllllover. Oh God. "I don't care ... just please."

His smile was almost triumphant. He released me to scoot down and tug my jeans off, fling them across the room and then nudged my legs apart. His tongue was hot and wet as it worked up the inside of my thigh and then flicked across my balls.

I nearly arched up off the floor. "Oh, shit, Walter."

He chuckled as his tongue worked to collect the head of my cock. I felt it all the way down inside me. Oh, that's my new goal in life: to lie still and make Walter S. Skinner laugh while I'm in his mouth.

What he did to me ... and I'm not sure yet I remember it all, made an odd clenching feeling in parts of my anatomy that I had heretofore not considered particularly sexual. I admit it, I was curious. Scared, but curious. "H-how long has it been, Walter?" I gasped.

He lifted his head and turned slightly to look at the clock on the mantel. "Less than twelve hours." He resumed the pumping action, making soft wet sounds that pierced me.

"No." I was moaning, trying to lie still and not to writhe. "I mean, since you ..."

"Oh." He released me, and frowned, his fingers replacing his lips as he thought about it. "Probably twenty years." He slipped his finger into his mouth and sucked a moment. "But it's like riding a bicycle. You never really forget how." He drew me back into his mouth and began to suck ... hard. His hands worked under me to spread my cheeks and I felt that wet finger working its way slowly inside me.

Ohhhhhhshitttt. That probing digit sealed my fate. I squirmed out of his mouth and pulled free, panting.

He raised his head, looking anxious. "Did I hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No." I tried to smile.

It took him a moment. He frowned at me. "I don't know, Mulder. Are you sure?"

I leaned up and kissed his mouth. "Just roll me over and call me Schwinn."

\- END chapter 07 -

* * *

TITLE: Choices Cost - Chapter 08 - Lost or Found  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Be careful what you wish for. It may be wonderful.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's note: Lambchops and tiggers and bears, oh, mine.

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Choices Cost - Chapter 08 - Lost or Found  
by Mik

I lost my virginity on Skinner's living room carpet.

And now I'm wondering if I also lost my mind.

It wasn't that he was a bad lover. On the contrary. He was amazing, fantastic, incredible. He was patient. He was concerned. He kept waiting for me to adjust to the idea of having a missile launched up my anus, petting and soothing and asking me if I wanted to stop. And when the fiery red behind my eyes dissolved into fireworks and cannons and loud 'Oh, my Goooooooods' he made me feel as if I had done the most wonderful thing in the world for him. He was effusive and tender and ... yes, even romantic. And maybe that's what was wrong.

Too romantic. Too sentimental. Trying to make it some kind of memorable event. And I began to see it as one. Somewhere along the way, it shifted from come-at-all-costs to is-this-really-the-way-you-want-it? Afterward, I remained where I was, staring down at the beige microfibres of his carpet, feeling just a bit like a newly deflowered former virgin wondering if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I don't know if he knew what I was thinking because he'd been there once himself, or if he was just alarmed by my sudden and, even I must confess, uncharacteristic quiet. I felt him roll over to his side. I felt his eyes move over me. I felt him draw a deep, yet somehow tentative breath. "Are you all right?" he asked in a voice softer than his carpet.

I nodded quickly, not quite ready to look at him. I had a clinical understanding of my internal disquiet. In some ways, my manhood had been redefined by allowing another man to enter me, use me the way he would use a woman. Even though it was something I desperately wanted. Was I fundamentally changed? In his eyes? In mine? I don't know which frightened me more.

Finally, with effort, I began to unfold myself, rise to my feet. He scrambled up chivalrously to aid me and I brushed him away. I was acutely aware of my nakedness and completely blind to his. As I moved around, collecting my clothing, I became aware of something else, slick and warm and dripping slowly down my inner leg. His cum leaking out of my ass. Could I be more marked? More used?

I found my way to the bathroom and took the liberty of taking a shower. A long one. Hot and soapy, trying to wash away the sensation of being someone's ... pussy.

I sank to the floor of the shower, letting the water rush over me. Letting fury rush over me. Not at him. He had done nothing but take what I begged him to take. I was angry at myself. That once again my impulses had taken me to a place where I would never go if I would just stop and think. How could I face him now?

I found out soon enough. The door pushed open and there he was, in the mist of my despair. Looking down at me gravely. He was quiet for a long time. Just looked at me. Then he nodded and drew a breath. "It never happened," he said, and turned away.

Well, shit, that's supposed to make me feel sooooo much better, isn't it? Right at that moment, with my ass on fire and my brains melting, he just turned my heart to ice.

I refused to limp, coming out of the bathroom, in my hastily gathered clothing and with my hair standing on end, even though I felt physically and emotionally wobbly. I avoided the kitchen, where I heard him moving around, and went back to the living room to find my shoes. I was stepping down into one without bothering with the niceties of socks when I realized he was standing at the dining room door. I know I blushed as I met his eyes and then jerked my gaze away.

"I made tea," he said quietly.

"Tea?" I said derisively. Bitter laughter burst out. "Could you be a little more gay?"

He didn't even flinch. "Would you prefer coffee?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." I shoved my foot into my other shoe. "I should go now."

"No." In one movement he was blocking my path. "You should stay, now."

I stopped short, unable to bear making contact. "Skinner," I nearly begged. "Please. Let's just ... let me go."

A baseball mitt of a hand came down on my shoulder. "I can't do that. Not now."

I pulled away from him, horrified. "Oh, let's not go making some big emotional event out of this." I swallowed, willing my voice not to crack. "We f-fucked. So what?"

It was a paranormal phenomenon. Without looking at him, without him taking one step toward me, I felt icy rage and then blazing wrath bubble up to me and envelop me more stultifying and painful than if he had body slammed me and held me face down in fire. "Fucked?" he rasped.

I swallowed again, forced my eyes upward, saw the feelings swirling in his and looked away. "All right. We made love." I didn't mean to sneer it. His hand jerked. I flinched. I'd wounded him and he wanted to hurt me back. "Look, why are you making this such a big deal? Aren't you the one who said it never happened?"

"You wanted this." He was pointing at the floor and I realized we were standing right on the spot where we had been locked in blinding passion only a short while before. His voice was soft suddenly, and slightly pained. "I thought you wanted this."

"I thought I did too," I admitted.

He was quiet for a moment, studying the floor, while I fidgeted beside him. His shoulders rose and fell in a short, impatient breath. "And now you regret it?" he concluded.

"No," I said quickly. "Well ... I don't know," I amended. "I didn't expect ... I'm not sure I can explain."

He looked up again. "You don't have to. Didn't I tell you last night that choices cost?"

I nodded. "Yes." The cost for being curious was this sudden, bewildering shift in the perception of who I was.

"And now you think the cost was too high?"

This was a trap. I could see it spread open, set in front of me, a great steel maw guaranteed to remove a limb. Saying yes was guaranteed to remove him from my life completely. Saying no was guaranteed to remove my already truncated sense of well being. I compromised. I climbed the fence. "I don't know."

"Liar." The sharpness in his voice pricked me like a needle. "If you didn't think so, even if you weren't sure, you're too damned curious to just walk away. You know." He glared at me. "You think you made a mistake and now I'm going to pay the price."

"P-price?" Damn it, Mulder, quit stammering.

"You're leaving me." He turned on his heel and marched up the stairs, slamming doors.

I stood there for a moment. Lost. Utterly. In the middle of the forest in the middle of the night I had a better idea of who I was and where I was than at that moment in his living room. I looked longingly toward the front door. I twisted around and looked up the stairs. With a sigh that was just a moment away from a wail, I limped toward the kitchen.

There was a teapot on the counter. Two blue cups sat neatly in two blue saucers. I wanted to sneer at that too. But there was something comforting about the precision of it, the way he prepared things, the way he looked ahead. He'd counted the cost before he even glanced my way. He knew what he wanted. Shit. He wanted me.

I sank down in one of the kitchen chairs and ... damn it ... I cried.

********************************************

I was pouring the last drops into my cup, my eyes burning, my head pounding, the tea bitter on my tongue, when I heard him come down the stairs and move toward the kitchen. It was late in the day and the sunlight slanted in low from the windows, making all his bright copper accouterment glitter blindingly. So much so that he blinked as he came through the door, and didn't see me sitting in the corner.

He looked haggard, from my view. I had him in profile. He had pulled on crisp khaki dockers and a brilliantly white sleeveless tee and looked as if he was ready to wrestle the world, but his face looked as if he had been wrestling his feelings, and lost.

Taking an inventory, he must have sensed things were out of place. The pot and one cup were missing from the place where he had so carefully laid them out. The other cup and both saucers still sat on the counter. His gaze swept left, and caught me as I lifted the errant cup to my mouth. For a moment, I thought he was angry. Then for a moment, I thought he was glad. Then his expression shuttered.

I put the cup down, licking tea from my lips. "I want to live with you, Walter."

Nothing.

I could feel my embarrassment burn up through my face like a wooden match. Just at the moment when I wanted to tearfully retract the statement, he moved toward me. I braced myself. His big paws slid around my face and held me against his hip.

"You sure this time?" he rumbled above me.

I nodded against him.

"You'll probably lose your job," he said.

"I know." Hell, my job had been a joke for years. But this ... this wasn't a joke. It was real.

I felt his fingers comb through my hair. "What will you do?"

I shrugged and an unpremeditated giggle slipped out. "Become your rent boy."

He cupped my face in his hands and turned to look down at me. "Have we gotten around to stating our feelings, Mulder?"

Panic. He didn't want this. I'd presumed -

"I happen to love you. Have loved you for years."

The stupid tears started again. "I ..." I couldn't say anything. The words were choked off in my throat.

He actually smiled at me. "I know."

I pulled free and brushed the tears away. "I'm sorry, Walter. It just took some time --"

"I know that." He bent just enough to let his lips slide softly over my brow. "It's part of the process. Especially for someone like you, someone who needs to analyze everything." He ruffled my hair. "You'll feel better after you've made love to me. Put us on an even footing again."

I looked up sharply. "You mean ... you'd let me ..." A new curiosity burgeoning within, a new heat of desire, a new thing to long for and fear and rush headlong toward.

He seemed surprised by my surprise. "Let you? I want you. Need you." Suddenly he was pulling me to my feet and gathering me close to him. "Don't you understand, Mulder? You've been a part of my fantasies for years. I've thought about us in every way possible, in every place possible. Not just sex, but life. That cabin I showed you? I've imagined us retired there, living a quiet life, a life full of books, and lovemaking and a few good friends and spectacular sunsets and peace of mind."

I was lost in his words, his imagery. Imagine a life not peopled by aliens, freaks, criminals and skeptics, imagine a life not driven by memories and quests. Just ... a life.

He was talking to me again and I struggled to focus on his words. "Did I hurt you?" he repeated.

"Hurt me?" I blinked up at him, dumbly. "Oh." I know I was blushing. "No."

"Good." He kissed me, deeply. "Because I have great hopes of doing that again, and soon."

I kissed back. Then I wrapped my arms around him, tight, like a little boy unwilling to let go of Daddy. "Can I stay the night?"

He unwrapped my arms the way he might unwrap a gift. "Try and get out the door," he said in a low, deadly voice. Then grinned.

That ... that grin. I'd face all the jeers and jokes and Board inquiries in the world just to get my daily requirement of that grin. And at that moment, when the music should have risen into a glissando of flutes, high strings and joy, my stomach rumbled.

He laughed at me. "It's comforting to know that you are in no danger of turning mushy on me, Mulder. Pizza?" He stopped just as he reached for the phone. "Mulder?"

"Pizza's fine."

He shook his head slightly. "I'm not going to call my rent boy Mulder."

"I was kidding about being a rent boy."

"Good." He dialed. "I'm going to call you Fox. Deal."

"Bossy."

"Damn straight." He ordered pizza without asking me what I'd like, but mind reader that he is, he ordered perfectly. Hanging up the phone, he reached for me, caught me under the arms and whirled me around the kitchen in a bad imitation of Fred and Ginger. "Well, you're not going to make a living as a dancer," he chuckled, letting me go.

"Who are you and what have you done with that sour assed bastard I called my boss?" I demanded.

"It's an X-File, Fox." He reached for the coffee decanter and rinsed it. "You're just not used to seeing me happy."

I moved a little closer, feeling something constrict inside me. "Are you happy?"

He put the carafe down and turned to look at me, leaning back against the counter. "I'm happier than I've been in a lifetime, Fox."

"But there are so many bastards out there who are going to make our life hell --"

"I know that." He seemed blissfully unconcerned.

"They're not just going to let us ride off into the sunset, you know."

"I know that."

"Damn it, Skinner --"

He cut me off with a kiss. "It isn't going to be perfect, Fox. We're going to have some problems. Some struggles with the world out there. Some struggles with our world in here. We're human beings. We are not guaranteed a ... you will pardon the expression ... fairy tale. We live. Ups and downs. Good times and bad. And in the end we tot it all up and decide if it was worth it. I think that having you in my life is worth whatever is waiting for us out there." He flicked a hand toward the windows. "I told you that last night. And I'll keep telling you 'til you believe it." He kissed me again. "This is what I want, Fox. You'd better be certain it's what you want. Count the cost, then tell me what you want."

I looked out the window. Out there was a world where men didn't love men. Where men who did were treated with scorn, ridicule, prejudice and violence. In here was a man who made me feel safe and wanted and ... and ... cherished. I looked back at him. "You sure I'm worth it?"

His only answer was a smile. A quiet, steadfast, wise, tender smile.

"I pay a price no matter what I want. If I play it safe, I live alone, I live a lie. I live without you." I sighed almost sadly. "Everything in life costs, doesn't it?"

"Not everything, Fox." He moved back to the coffeemaker and poured the water from the carafe. "Dreams are free." He turned slowly. "Which do you want? Life ... or dreams?"

"I think ... I think, with you, I get both."

He shook his head. "No more dreams, Fox. From this moment on, we both start living." He pushed the button that started the coffee making process. "Deal."

If anyone in his nice, white collar, uptight suburban neighborhood had looked through the kitchen window at that moment, they would have seen two men dancing ... badly, but dancing.

And living.

\- END -

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End file.
